


When the Lights Go On Again

by runningscissors



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Classic Doctor Who References, Implied Sexual Content, Major Character Injury, Minor Canonical Character(s), Multi, Multi-Era, No Plot/Plotless, POV Alternating, Past The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Referenced Time War (Doctor Who), References to Depression, References to Ninth Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors
Summary: Out from under the shadow of war, Rose Tyler was looking to better herself, while all John Smith wanted was some peace of mind after everything he lost. Life after war is hard to rebuild, but sometimes, underneath the rubble and guilt, something new can emerge.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor | John Smith/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> There are numerous series references peppered through-out this, both from the new and classic years. I'll make a note of any obscure ones in the notes below. There are also many direct historical and world-building references. I will try to note below any that might need further explanation for anyone interested! 
> 
> Title taken from "When The Lights Go On Again (All Over the World)," a popular song during WWII about what the world would be like after the war.
> 
> Advanced warnings for anyone sensitive to discussions of depression/PTSD, major injuries or depictions of war

“Hello, Miss Tyler!”   
  
“Morning, Mr. Smith!” 

They always seemed to cross paths in the mornings, to her secret pleasure. Rose, off to her job at the haberdashery, and John speeding to make it to the Grammar School before morning prayers began.

He’d taken up lodgings with the Nobles on Chiswick Lane a year ago, choosing to live in town rather than in the teacher’s accommodations at the school. Their morning routine had soon begun in the way most acquaintances developed. They would exchange smiles and occasionally some pleasantries as they passed each other on the street, nothing more. But John was different, his friendliness bordered on exuberant most days it seemed.

Rose knew little about him other than what cousin Mo or her mum knew from the gossip that circulated around all small communities. Just that, like them, he wasn’t from Derbyshire, had a posh Oxbridge education, and before teaching at Deffry Vale Grammar had briefly been employed as a private tutor for Lady Sarah Jane’s ward, a teenage boy she’d taken in after the war. Rose had seen them attend some of the community events, but they lived up at the big manor house, Foxglove. Other then that, John Smith was a mystery— all be it a personable and rather scrummy looking one. She sometimes wondered if he served, it seemed so unlikely that a man his age hadn’t seen some action overseas. Almost every boy Rose grew up had either served or been involved in Home Front efforts.

John flashed her a broad smile and quick wave in greeting, as he always did, as he passed by on his utility bicycle, blue paint chipping by the front tyre and his satchel strapped to the back. He always looked harried, not enough Brylcreem to tame down his hair, suit rumpled, tie askew. She watched him dodge a cart at the end of the road with a quick, ‘ _sorry, so sorry’_ as he sped off around the corner.

She laughed, shook her head and headed off towards work. 

+

Rose wouldn’t say she didn’t like her job, but it certainly didn’t pay as well as Henrik’s had. She’d left school at fourteen, her mother widowed and with two children to take care of, Rose’s wages were desperately needed. She worked as a housemaid first, then a nappy on Piccadilly, before getting work as a shop-girl in a big department store. Miraculously, she’d made it through the majority of the war unscathed, then the last bombings in ’45 had happened, and her job had been six feet under rubble. Still, it had been hard to stay in London and continue working while mum and Tony had come to live with cousin Mo in the Peak District seven years ago to escape the Blitz. Some nights she still woke in a blind panic, the lingering sound of air raid sirens ringing in her ears. Bucknall was quiet, almost too quiet at times, and while in many ways living here was better— fresh air, beautiful nature all around them, room for Tony to run and play, in other ways, Rose felt stifled. Three years she’d lived here, and she still felt out of step with others. Everyone knew everyone’s business and they all grew up here, but the Tylers were outsiders, city folk unused to country life.

Sometimes she couldn’t help but think there had to be something better out there.

Rose was sorting through ration coupons when the bell chimed over the door, and she looked up in surprise to see John Smith step into the shop. Men rarely came in, and he looked decidedly out of place even as he greeted her with a beaming smile.  
  
“Miss Tyler,” he called enthusiastically, “just the person I was looking for!” She ignored the flutter in her stomach at that and put on her best customer smile. “I need your help. I seem to have had a bit of a sartorial accident.” He gestured down at his pant leg where she could see a large, jagged tear in his trousers by his ankle. She tried to smother her grin when she caught his embarrassed expression. “Please tell me it’s mendable. I caught it in the chain of my bicycle on my way home, and if Syl— er, Mrs. Noble or Donna catch me looking like this, I’ll never hear the end of it.” John grimaced, before smiling conspiratorially with a small waggle of his brow, “They say I’m a menace on my bicycle, but honestly, life isn’t worth living if there’s not an occasional spot of danger.”

She laughed at this, coming around the counter to take a better look at the tear.

“Well, she said after a moment of inspection, “you’re in luck, Mr. Smith—”

“John,” he interjected quickly, then smiling. “Please call me John.”  
  
“John,” she replied, returning his smile. “Your trousers are fixable, but it will be an obvious mend job. Can you sew at all?”

He shrugged, “Rudimentary skills— loose buttons, darning socks, that sort of thing.”

Rose made a _hmmm_ noise in thought, chewing at her lip before glancing at her watch.

“I was about ready to close for the day, so I think I can get you sorted right here.” She turned to begin gathering her supplies, then paused, “You’ve not got anywhere pressing to be, have you?”

“No!” He said briskly, rocking onto the souls of his shoes, hands clutched behind his back. “Not at all, free as a bird, me. Not a name on my dance card, so to speak, _well_ —” he scratched at the back of his head, dragging his hand up through his hair, “What I mean to say is—” he stopped, blinking at her, “sorry, I’m rambling. What I meant is, as long as I’m not keeping you from anything, then I’m grateful for your help. And of course, I’ll pay for the repair, and any of the materials you’ve used.”

“No, need,” she said, waving him off, “we always have loose spools of thread about the shop, and I’m happy to help.”  
  
“Well, this is very kind of you, Miss Tyler, thank-you.”  
  
“Rose,” she said, mimicking his earlier words, “Please call me Rose.”

“Rose,” he said in return, his grin turning soft, his wide, expressive brown eyes crinkling. She liked the way he said her name, as his mouth shaped the vowels.

She smiled, satisfied with his response, and gathered thread to match the thick wool of John’s trousers and a darning needle. After a few moments of sorting out the logistics—she couldn’t very well ask him to remove his trousers in the middle of the shop—they decided that the easiest way was for John to sit on the chair from the back room, with her perched on a stool and to have him prop his leg on her knees. It was a fairly intimate position for two people who had never touched before. Still, Rose wasn’t the prudish type, and she imagined John wasn’t either. There was, however, the uncomfortable moment she realized she would need to put her hand up his pant leg to be able to thread the needle through the fabric properly, but he had just smiled in response, and she stamped down her embarrassment. It wasn’t like she was some blushing virgin, and his socks covered all his skin anyway. She noted with amusement that they didn’t match, one was navy, the other a dark bottle green.

They chatted aimlessly as she worked, mainly about John’s students and classes, of which he seemed to teach an unusually large amount of subjects due to them being so short-staffed — upper years mathematics and science, and lower years social studies, in addition to elective classical languages (which he didn’t particularly enjoy teaching but was the only member of staff who read Latin _and_ Greek). She was impressed at how knowledgeable he was in so many fields. _Bit_ _of a polymath, he’d_ said with a shrug as if she had any clue what that even meant. Rose made a note to look it up in Cousin Mo’s dictionary when she got home. John then switched to stories about his travels abroad, of which she listened to so raptly she ended up stabbing herself with the darning needle more than once. He talked about how he’d bounced around the world ‘ _favouring myself a romantic figure in my youth like Magellan or Marco Pollo, or my fictional hero Phileas Fogg,’_ he’d added this part with a roll of his eyes, which made Rose laugh. He was, without a doubt, the most fascinating person she had ever met in her entire life. John had crammed more into the short years of his life so far, then most people could even dream of— certainly no one in this sleepy little town. Rose had never felt ashamed to be working class, and she was better off than lots of needy souls. Still, it made her own basic schooling and experiences feel poxy in comparison. But she was sure that wasn’t his intention, so she kept quiet and kept him talking in hopes he wouldn’t question her in turn.

“Still, of course,” he said, his voice taking on a wistful tone, “this was all before the war.” If she hadn’t been looking down at her work, she would have caught the haunted look that flashed in his eyes. As it was, she missed it and therefore asked the question she would have immediately known not to ask.

“Did you serve?”

“Yes,” he said tersely, voice abruptly losing all the pleasantness it just held, “RAF.”

And that was that for a tense, uncomfortable moment before, like the flip a switch, he smiled and asked if she had explored any of the public footpaths. Rose could tell this was a deflection, but by now, she recognized the look of a man desperate to put the horrors of war behind him. So she patted his knee in comfort, returned his smile, and said no, she hadn’t, but maybe she should. They continued to converse happily for a bit more before Rose deemed the tear fixed. She almost wished she had stretched it out longer, but Rose knew her mum would already be wondering where she was, and she didn’t want to keep him from the rest of his evening. John examined her stitch work, then grinning broadly, declaring it perfect and her ‘ _utterly brilliant,’_ which made her flush with praise. He then bounded up off the chair, reaching down to offer his hand and help her to her feet. She took it without thought, but at the feel of her hand in his, she glanced up at him and the suddenly unknowable depths swimming in his eyes.  
  
“Can I escort you home?” He asked, voice boyish and unsure, so unlike the charming, confident manner in which he’d spoken for the past half forty-five minutes, which made her grin coyly and nod. After locking up, they made their way down the main square. John pushed his bicycle along one side of him, with Rose on his other— their shoulders brushing they continually swayed into one another as they walked, smiling at each other like children each time they touched until they both laughed.

Soon, John was talking animately again, features practically waggling off his face to make up for the hands he didn’t have available, and she felt a bubble of laughter escape at the sight of it. He was the type of person who seemed to use their whole body to communicate. He paused mid-speech, realizing she had stopped walking, and looked back at her in bewilderment.

“What?” He asked, a grin tugging at his lips as she giggled again.

“Nothing,” she shook her head in dismay and smiled, tongue pinched between her teeth. “This is me.” She jerked her head towards the front door, Tony’s manky gum boots sitting on the stoop.

“Oh,” he mumbled, smile dimming, “quite right. Well,” he sighed, tugging at his ear, “thank-you for coming to my rescue, Rose. You’ve saved me much strife from two meddlesome women. I shouldn’t say that really, they mean well. Donna says, because I don’t have a sweetheart, it’s their job to keep me respectable.” John blanched at that, his eyes going wide as saucers as his words caught up to him, and he looked away, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Blimey, let’s forget I said that.” Rose laughed, biting at her nail.

“ _Well_ ,” he said, drawing out the word as she noticed he was prone to do, “I suppose this is goodnight, Rose Tyler.”  
  
“I suppose,” she smirked. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?”

He grinned, a broad smile that stretched his cheeks. “That’s right! I shall see you tomorrow morning, bright and early Rose Tyler. You’re my visual cue, you are. If I miss you, then I know I’m late, but I’m never late, and so I never miss you.”

She laughed again at his exuberance, and buoyed by his enthusiasm, she grasped his free hand, squeezing it briefly in hers before letting go. He looked at down at their hands, that undefinable expression back on his face for a moment before he met her gaze.

“Goodnight, John.” 

“Goodnight, Rose.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Foxglove is the name of the village Sarah-Jane is from in Classic Who
> 
> [2] Cousin Mo who lives in the Peak District comes from "The Christmas Invasion" 
> 
> [3] Bucknall is a fictional amalgamation of several real small market towns in the Derbyshire Dales region- mainly Bakewell and Ashbourne, which are both on the edge of the Peak District National Park. 
> 
> [4] The Blitz was from 1940-41, but in 1944-45 Germany dropped another round of bombs on London.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this story, John is a mix of both the Ninth and Tenth Doctor. Both of their characterisms and arcs get referenced. John will follow the same character arc as Nine transitioning to Ten. His personality might be Ten, but his thinly veiled trauma is all Nine.

Despite the warming daytime temperatures, the nights were still quite nippy, so John made sure to grab a jumper in his rush out the back door. As he hurried down the steps blindly pulling his jumper over his head, he practically slammed into Donna on the stoop.

“Oi, watch it, spaceman,” she snapped, pulling her robe closer against the chill. “You just about cleared me right off the step.” 

“Sorry, Donna,” John mumbled, head popping out the neck of his thick fisherman’s knit. “Can’t chat, I’ve gone through a whole pot of tea, and my back teeth are absolutely floating.” With that, he pushed past her and bolted down the path to the privy.

“Oh charming,” Donna called loudly after him, “honestly with manners like that, it’s a marvel you’re still a bachelor.”

A few minutes later, he joined Donna in the kitchen as she rummaged through the larder. “Christ,” she moaned, “I thought with the war over, we’d go back to proper food rations. I’m so starvin’ I could eat a horse. I know mum’s got some biscuits stashed back here.” She shifted a few more containers, then emerged with an old rusting tin with a sound of triumph. John put more water on the hob and took a sniff at the proffered treat. A bit stale, but he’d certainly eaten far worse.

“What are you doing up?” He asked, crumbs flying from the corner of his mouth. Donna rolled her eyes and primly swallowed her own bite.  
  
“Couldn’t sleep. A mouse is running around in my wall. I can hear it. And now I’m sure I’ll be dead on my feet tomorrow.” She shuddered, taking another bite of her biscuit. Donna caught the milk train every morning to Buxton, where she worked in a typing pool.

“I can take a look tomorrow, if you want,” John offered, taking the whistling kettle off the hob and adding it to the brown earthenware teapot on the table. He’d have to make sure to replace Sylvia’s tea with the rate he was going through it tonight.

“Would you? Oh, thanks,” Donna sighed in relief, pouring them both a cup. “You? I know you’re a night owl, but you normally don’t stretch marking out this long.” She eyed him critically, one ginger brow arched, and John squirmed in his chair.

“Oh, you know,” he feigned with a small shrug, “these ones are particularly tedious.”

Donna raised her other brow over the rim of her cup, and he knew he’d not fooled her for even a moment.

“Oh, all right,” he huffed, “I’ve just been thinking some thoughts I’d rather not be thinking about, and, you know…” he petered off, but Donna nodded in understanding, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

His thoughts were a dark swirl of Gallifrey and the war— the sound of spitfire and his hands soaked with blood no matter how hard he scrubbed. Some days were better. Some days he could almost pretend it was all just a funny dream— something that had happened to another man in another life. But he couldn’t. It had happened to him; he had done those unspeakable things, had made the orders; pulled the trigger and watched his home burn away to rubble and ash. Sometimes he still dreamed of flying, cresting above the clouds and watching the heavens expand around him. Of course, one would have to actually believe in a heaven for something like that to mean anything, which he didn’t. But still, there was something otherworldly about soaring through the clouds. He used to love flying, had from the minute he’d sat in the cockpit as an undergraduate at Cambridge and joined the Air Squadron. That first taste of real freedom, of adventure. Not anymore. Another casualty of the war. 

“Well,” Donna began, noticeably gently this time, “if you ask me—”

“I didn’t,” he said darkly, softening immediately at the surprised look on her face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing at his face, “sorry, I’m being a prat. I give you permission to give me a pasting next time you catch me feeling sorry for myself.”  
  
Donna gave a small sympathetic quirk of her lips, “You know I’d never.” No, he was sure she wouldn’t. Donna had been a medical secretary at an RAF hospital in Matlock during the war— she, more than most around here, knew. Then she smiled, leaning back in her seat. “But I’ll remember you said that. There are certainly times you deserve a sound thrashing.”

He groaned.

+

_Damn_ , he was cutting it short this morning, he knew. Wilfred, Donna’s kindly grandfather who lived with the family, had yelled after John that he still had a spot of shaving cream on his neck as he’d raced out the door, a triangle of toast pinched between his teeth, but he couldn’t risk it.  
  
Sod morning prayers, he didn’t give a toss about that, he thought, wiping off his neck and securing his satchel. He just couldn’t miss Rose.

The golden halo of her hair in the morning light, the way her skirts swished around her knees as she walked and the clip of her heels on the cobbled road, that little mauve beret she hadn’t retired yet for the season, even as the days grew warmer. Sometimes, though he was loathed to admit it, he would get caught watching the gentle sway of her hips, throwing more than one lingering glance over his shoulder as he peddled past. A smile from Rose Tyler and a few friendly words could set his day, no matter the headache that awaited him. The sight of her tongue peeking cheekily from the corner of her mouth sent his heart racing faster than his two-mile ride to the school any day. 

He caught up to her just as she was rounding Main Street.

“Good morning, Rose Tyler!” He called brightly, his grin stretching when she smiled his way. It had been a few weeks since they’d become acquainted on a first-name basis, and he still revelled in saying her name. He relished the way it rolled off his tongue, almost like he could taste the words.  
  
“Oh, John,” she cried, hurrying towards him. He didn’t really have time for a chinwag, but for Rose, he would always stop. He’d just have to peddle full out to make it in time. “I don’t want to keep you, but is there any way I could speak with you this evening?”  
  
His heart sped up at the idea of an evening with Rose.“Of course, I could call on you at home this evening if that works?”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I wouldn’t subject you to my noisy family.” She said this with a grin, but he could see a nervous glint in her eye. He hadn’t met the rest of the Tylers or their cousin Moreen Prentice, but from the brief stories he’d heard from Rose, he could guess.

“Would you mind stopping by the shop instead? I promise it won’t take long.” 

He readily agreed and then sped off, thoughts spinning about what she could possibly want to shield her mother from knowing.

+

It was half-past four when John stepped into the haberdashery. He usually had his evening tea at the school with some of the other staff and the students who boarded, but he’d skipped it tonight. John would just plead a meal off of Sylvia or splurge on a takeaway instead. Rose greeted him cheerfully when he entered the shop. He ignored the queer looks of two middle-aged women as he pretended to peruse the shelves, shoving away quickly with a searing blush when he realized he’d been lingering on brassiere band lengtheners.

Oh, bother. 

Rose chuckled, a soft feminine sound like the tinkle of bells, and he met her eye with a small, sheepish grin. When the shop finally emptied, Rose made her way around the counter with her hands clasped at her waist.

“Anything I can help you find, sir?” She asked with her _customer service_ voice. “More thread for trouser repairs? A girdle stretcher, perhaps?” She motioned to the display just below his line of sight. “We have a lovely new selection in.”  
  
“Definitely not.” He laughed, tugging at his ear in embarrassment once more.

Rose laughed as well, patting his arm to ease his discomfort with a smile. “Thank you for meeting me. Could I buy you a cuppa or a pint, maybe? I can do that, right?” She asked, her nose wrinkling in disdain. “I never know what these country pubs are like; some don’t even let women in them, did you know that? You’d never get away with that anymore in London.”

“You know,” he said, rubbing at his cheek in thought, “it’s been ages since I had a proper pint. Let’s do that. I know for a fact women can sit in the lounge.”  
  
Rose went to grab her things and say goodbye to her employer, Mrs. Overton, then they headed down the road to the local pub, _The Fox Inn_. Once sat, drinks in hand— just a schooner for Rose, a more reasonable request for a woman as far as the barman was concerned— Rose began to fidget in her seat.  
  
“Everything all right?” He asked, eyeing her watchfully. It put him in mind of a naughty school child, something he absolutely didn’t want to equate Rose with. He was already painfully aware that he was considerably older than Rose. He’d wager a decade or maybe even more, which was an utterly depressing thought. What did it that say about him?

“Yes, sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t know why I’m being so daft about this, really.”  
  
He took a gulp of his drink. “Whatever you want, Rose. I’m perfectly content to just sit here and enjoy a drink with you.” He said this to appease her, but of course, it was true. He was chuffed, couldn’t believe his luck really, to be sitting here with her. Although he was beginning to remember why he didn’t frequent pubs, choking on the thick haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a noxious cloud. Rose smiled, her cheeks an attractive rosy tone and the tip of her red-lacquered nail playing with the rim of her glass. It was a hypnotizing sight, and he found himself watching it go round and round, only catching himself when she spoke again.

“You worked as a tutor up at Foxglove, yeah?”

“Yes,” he nodded, surprised by the question. “I know Lady Sarah Jane socially. When she took in Luke, because of the mess of the war he was too far behind his peers, and I was just _—_ ” he paused, clearing his throat, “Well, anyway, I was looking for something to do, so her ladyship hired me to help catch Luke up so he could attend school the next year.” 

John necked his pint, drowning the words he didn’t want to speak. No woman of sound mind would take him on if they knew the truth. Because the fact was, before coming to Bucknall, he’d spent the last year of the war in a convalescence home, broken in both body and spirit. _Combat stress reaction,_ they’d called it— survivors guilt more like crippling blame and self-hatred for the things the war had forced upon him. The nightmares that still plagued him, waking sweat-drenched and nauseous, the smell of smoke still singeing his throat and nostrils. Thank-god for Donna and Wilf, or he’s sure he’d have been evicted long ago. He couldn’t stay at school. The fear that he would frighten the students in the night had been too high. 

“Why do you ask?” He questioned, desperate to move this along. He wanted to go forward, not backwards.

“Because,” she took a drink, then rolled her shoulders back as if preparing for something, a determined look about her. “I wondered if you could do that for me. I don’t have much savings, but I’d pay you what I could.”  
  
He sat back in surprise, “You’re looking for a tutor?”  
  
“Yes,” she said, a fierce blush crawling up her neck now. “I never sat any finishing exams. Left school at fourteen, and maybe before the war, that wouldn’t matter any, but things are different now, especially for women. I want to do something bigger, y’ know, something more than working in a shop, and I need my School Certificate to do that. I can imagine the last thing you probably want to do in your free time is more teachin’ but—” a look flashed in her eyes, uncertainty or vulnerability maybe— “would you help me?” 

He could tell Rose was embarrassed, though she had absolutely no reason to be. The fact that she wanted to better her life was admirable. A large part of him was flattered that she’d asked him, that she trusted him with this. However, another part of him feared how she might think of him— some scholarly fuddy-duddy instead of the potential suitor he’d rather be.

“I’d be happy to help you, Rose, and no payment necessary! I always encourage pursuits of the mind, me.”

Rose smiled a beautiful, bright grin that split her face like a sunset. “Really? Oh, that’s ace! But, please, I have to give you something for taking up your time.”

What could he say? _No, really, it’s my pleasure to spend time with you. In fact, I’d like to spend all my time with you— my mornings, and afternoons, and nights, whole days in succession one after the other…_

“ _Well_ ,” he said instead, “Tell you what, I’ve got quite a voracious sweet tooth. The occasional bag of sweets, or a chocolate biscuit or two, and we’ll call it even.”

She laughed, “What, really? That’s it? You’re as bad as my little brother Tony, and he’s ten.” He smiled, with a ‘what can you do’ shrug, and she giggled again.

“Okay, deal,” she said, raising her glass, “cheers!” Their glasses clinked gently as they shared a grin over the rims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] There was a real RAF hospital in Matlock during the war. 
> 
> [2] It was not until the early 1950s that most commodities were de-rationed and food rationing ended completely in 1954. 
> 
> [3] Several universities in the UK developed Air Squadron programs after WWI to get students interested in flying and to recruit for the newly formed RAF.


	3. Chapter Three

Rose’s lessons began the following Monday. They’d arranged to meet at the grammar school, as it seemed the most appropriate option. Most of John’s supplies were in his classroom, and there was no way they’d get anything done at hers, not with Tony, Cousin Mo, and her mum underfoot. Besides, it wasn’t like Jackie approved all that much; she couldn’t understand why Rose would want to give up a perfectly good job. ‘Don’t _go getting airs and graces’_ Jackie had said, ‘ _your dad and I weren’t too good for menial work, and neither are you.’_ Rose knew her mum meant well. She raised Rose the best she could with next to nothing, especially when her dad died so close after Tony’s birth, and Jackie was left with a new, unplanned extra mouth to feed on her own.

Rose wouldn’t admit it, but as she walked through the imposing building, she had to confess she was nervous. She’d scanned through Tony’s leaners over the weekend, and even those had left her feeling uneasy.

Maybe this had been a mistake.

The last thing she wanted was to look foolish, especially to John. But he’d seemed so enthusiastic about it all, promising to work out a rough lesson plan and schedule over the weekend, and she hated the idea of disappointing him, so here she was. She’d even put on her last good pair of silk stockings, and her smartest skirt— not that he’d notice that of course— but it made her feel better. Dress for success and all that toff.

John’s room was at the end of the corridor on the second floor, and when she popped her head around the door with a knock, he looked up from his desk with a broad smile. He wore thick, plastic-framed glasses, and they, in addition to his much-mussed hair, gave him a distinctly dotty professor like appearance. It worked for him.

“Rose Tyler!” he called cheerily, shoving back from his desk like billy-o, his chair rocking back against the blackboard that ran the length of the wall. “Come in, come in!”

She smiled, smoothing down the wrinkles from her climb up the stairs, and stepped into the room. It was a sunny and moderately sized classroom, with several rows of wooden desks and adjoined chairs. These were all secondary observations to her first one, which was that the room was chockablock with _stuff._ The shelves seemed to practically buckle under the weight of the books stacks on them. In the corner sat a curio cabinet filled with what Rose might have called tat— rocks, strange specimens in jars, old looking pottery and what looked like a skull of some sort. Almost every available wall space was covered— posters of various subjects and maps— some collected on his many travels, no doubt. The room felt inviting, ripe for the shaping of young minds. She hoped it would provide as much inspiration for her.

John ushered her to a table at the side of the room, his arms waylaid with textbooks which he dumped, and rushed to grab his desk chair to join her. She pulled a small, white paper packet from her handbag. “As we agreed. I hope you like jelly babies.”   
  
John grinned, his eyes widening in obvious delight. “I _love_ jelly babies. How did you know?” He dug into the bag, shoving a few in his mouth, then offered it to her. She declined with a small grin, chuffed that she’d chosen so well.

“Lucky guess. My brother loves them, too.”

“Good lad! Now,” he said, swallowing around the last of his mouthful, “I’ve written to the SSEC to see when they plan to set the next round of exams. If it’s too soon, you can always write them later. They schedule them several times a year, so there’s no rush.”

“Oh, John, I couldn’t ask you to do this for very long.” She hadn’t even thought about the fact that the school year would be ending in a few months. She’d never be ready by then.   
  
“Well,” he smiled, bumping his shoulder with hers, “let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, though,” he reached for the papers on the table, “let’s sort out what your subjects are going to be.”

An hour later, they had a rough outline planned out. It was required for Rose to study English and— much to her displeasure— mathematics. They settled on history, geography, art, and science as her elected subjects. He’d suggested languages— of which he casually mentioned his fluency in several.

“Largely self-taught,” he said with a hint of smugness, “I just have an ear for it, I suppose.” But she decided it was too much work for her to learn a new language from scratch. He also assigned her some initial readings, just to gauge her current comprehension and to help ease her back into academic work.

“You’re far more clever, Rose, then you give yourself credit for,” he said with such certainty. “I’m sure it’ll all come flooding back to you once we get into it.” She wished she had his faith. It was closing on six o’clock by the time they finished. John gathered up his papers into his satchel, and together they made their way down the hall as he locked the door behind him.

“The, uh,” he began, rocking back on his heels, “the school serves evening tea right about now, and staff are welcome to it. How about we grab a bite to eat, and then I can give you a ride back.” He smiled, his look boyish, maybe sheepish even. Either way, it was very charming, as was his small blush.

“Didn’t you ride your bicycle here?” She asked, knowing full well he did.   
  
“You can sit on my handles,” he grinned, “I promise I’ll go slow.”

Her mum wouldn’t be happy she’d missed dinner at home, and she definitely wouldn’t be pleased if she saw Rose on the handlebar of some man’s bicycle, but he wasn’t some man, he was _John,_ and her mum, or Mo, or anyone else who had an issue with it could hang. She was tired of everyone being in her business. She was twenty-three-years old, and she didn’t even have her own bloody room. She had to share with Tony, which wasn’t exactly fun for either of them.   
  
She wanted something that was hers, just for her.

“All right,” she agreed with a chuckle, making a mental note to stuff her stockings in her handbag before they left, they’d never make it home intact otherwise.

“Excellent, _molto bene_!” He rubbed in hands together with verve. “Hopefully, they have good pudding tonight.” 

+

As it turned out, the pudding _was_ good. Spotted dick with custard, to John’s glee. Rose and John bonded over their mutual appreciation for fruit cake. Although Rose was beginning to suspect there wasn’t much John wouldn’t eat.

“Except pears,” he said with a shudder like he was going to spew. 

John introduced her to several members of staff in the dining room, and Rose tried to ignore the mile-long stare the children seemed to throw her way. Unsurprising, really, she was a new face in their isolated world.

“It must be hard to live away from home,” she murmured, looking around. Some of these children were close in age to Tony. She couldn’t imagine children that young living without their parents. Of course, in London, you saw kids running about the streets all the time, and she was sure many of them didn’t have real homes or families. And she’d more or less been independent at fifteen when mum and Tony had evacuated to Bucknall. She’d lived with her friend Shareen, whose family had a spare room when her brother enlisted. 

“It’s not so bad,” John said around a large mouthful. “Of course, I spent most of my youth in boarding school, and _hated_ every moment of it.”   
  
“You did?”

“Oh, yes,” he sighed, “utterly chafed at all the rules, and I came from a place big on rules. Did a runner the moment I was done university and never looked back.” A flicker of something passed through him, a sadness that Rose had never seen in him before that brief moment in the pub. Something tragic in his past it seemed, which was lying just beneath the surface.

“Oh,” Rose mumbled, realizing, once again, that she didn’t really know anything meaningful about this man. “Where is that? That you’re from, I mean.”

John blinked as if awaking from his thoughts and looked at her. “It was a little island, past Shetland.” Rose’s brows furrowed. Why would he say it _was_ as if it were gone now? Islands didn’t just disappear.   
  
“You don’t sound Scottish. I’d never have guessed.”

He chuckled, which was encouraging she supposed. “I’m not. I’m from Gallifrey, a small island country.” His voice caught ever so slightly on the name as if it pained him even to say it. “I’m your resident alien,” he added with a smirk and a charismatic arch of his brow as if to plaster over the previous moment.

“Oh,” she said again, beginning to feel a bit foolish now. “But, you flew in the war.”   
  
He nodded, tugging at his ear, one of several mannerisms she’d noticed that seemed to come out when he was feeling uncomfortable or dodgy. “My mother was British, so I have dual citizenship. She came out with Lady Sarah Jane, and they remained friends— that’s how I know her.”

Again with the past tense.

 _Came out,_ it sounded so posh. Rose knew John was, he’d have to be with all his schooling and such, but she’d never really thought about it all that much before. He seemed like such a _normal_ bloke, with his reasonably modest job in a small country town. John didn’t even live alone or own property; he lodged. But he wasn’t really; he was posh, someone more significant than a shopgirl from rough South London. He was above her social station. She suddenly felt daft for thinking there was something between them. She’d thought— well it didn’t matter, she’d thought wrong. Well, if there was one thing Rose could do, it was laughing her way out of an uncomfortable social situation, so she did just that.   
  
“Alien, eh? Well, that explains it then,” she said with her best and brightest smile, tongue peeking, so he got her teasing tone. He grinned back at her, and the oppressive, moody feeling that seemed to hang over them lifted.

+

As much as Rose knew she shouldn’t, it was easy to forget the impropriety of it and get lost in the moment. The sting of the wind on her face, John's hands brushing against her hips, and their bodies pressed close together on the little rickety blue bicycle. His laughter was a reverberation in her ear, as he hastily wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her when the front wheel hit a large pebble. She let out a girlish squeal as the bicycle gave another dangerous wobble, and he laughed again, securing his arm tighter against her.   
  
“Good thing I’m a brilliant cyclist and can do this one-handed.” His voice seemed to rumble this close to her, and she blushed, clutching at the handlebar and his arm.   
  
“Yeah,” she replied rather more breathlessly than she’d like, “good thing or I’d have been arse over tit long ago.” Rose made a face, hating how common she sounded, but John let out another bark of laughter, the sound of it echoing through the quiet night air, and she smiled.

They had just about reached the main square before he stopped to let her off. The cobbles would be havoc trying to navigate with two he said, but he wore a look of near disappointment as Rose dismounted, and she questioned for the nth time this evening whether she had thought right about his interest all along. He’d never given any indication that he wasn’t, but he’d never given any real indication that he was either. If he was interested in her, wouldn’t he have asked her out in any of the many mornings they’d greeted each other, or stopped to chat this past year?

Maybe he was just a friendly chap?

Maybe she was reading too much into all of this?

...Or maybe she should stop before she did her head in. It was better not to complicate things anyway, John was already so kind to help her, and it wouldn’t do her any good to muddy the waters.

“Cheers for that,” she laughed, trying to discreetly hike down her skirt, which had ridden well up her thighs on the journey. John made a move to scratch at his neck, but she noticed with amusement that he failed to look away. Another tick for the interested column then.

She reached for the books strapped to the bicycle, but he pushed ahead with a roguish grin. “Oh no, a gentleman always sees a lady to her door.” Another tick?   
  
“Is that right? I’ve not known many gentlemen, then.”

“Well, you do now,” he said with a cheeky wink. Yes, she thought, another tick for sure. Rose couldn’t make heads or tails of this wayward man— he went from shameless flirt to tormented soul, to bashful and unsure, and back to overwhelming cheerfulness all in the span of one evening. He was like four seasons in one day.

+

“Do you think you’ll ever move back?” John asked. She’d never met someone who wanted to know so much about her. He’d posed question after question—another diversion tactic, no doubt, a way to avoid talking about himself.

“I can’t see Mum and Tony doing so. Mo got Mum a job with her at the creamery, and she likes it there— good hours, good wages, and that was hard to find before. And Tony was so young when they evacuated, and he doesn’t remember London. His friends are here; his school is here.”   
  
“And you?”

She shrugged. She’d missed London and all her friends when she first moved to Bucknall. But as the years had passed, she found she missed it less and less. London was noisy and smoggy. She’d been worked off her feet from sun up to sun down it seemed. She could see the stars here. But now, who knew what lay ahead. Tonight felt like the first time she’d ever been genuinely excited about what her future could be.

“John,” she said as they reached her front door, she could see the glow from the sitting room and knew the wireless must be on. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for helping me with all this.” She reached out, covering his hand with hers where it clutched the handlebar and squeezed. He gazed down at their hands, and when he looked back up, his eyes were gleaming with some emotion she couldn’t pin down. Instinctively, she wanted to pull him into her arms to hold him against whatever it was that could bring about such a strong reaction to the merest touch of her hand. She wanted to tell him that whatever it was, she was here for him.

But getting him to open up was like pulling teeth, and she got the impression that he’d already said more than he wanted at dinner, so she left it.He could keep his mysteries for now, and hopefully, someday he would trust her enough to open up. 

“My pleasure, Rose,” he replied softly.

They shared a small, bashful smile before she scuttered to unload the books. She turned to leave, but at the last minute, she reached up, hand on his arm to steady herself, and tentatively brushed a kiss again his cheek. His skin felt cold under her lips, a day’s worth of stubble beginning to form. When she pulled back, his eyes were widened in something like awe, and her heart lurched at the sight of it.She gave one last coy smile, teeth catching her bottom lip, then turned and hurried through the door before her nerves could get the better of her.

She’d count that as another tick in the interested column.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Geographically, I've placed Gallifrey in the North Atlantic Sea in line with the Faroe Islands and Iceland.


	4. Chapter Four

“Oi, Spaceman,” Donna hollered, banging on his bedroom door, “post’s come for you.”

“Just slip it under the door.”

“I’m not your secretary, sunshine—” water sloshed in the metal tub as he moved for his teacup. There was a pause, then “—are you in the bloody bath?”

John could lie, but Donna would catch him the moment he began bringing down buckets of sudsy water. “Yes,” he mumbled, “I think better in the bath.”

“I swear you take more baths than the Royal Princesses. What could you possibly have to puzzle over? Having a sulk more like, have the Profumo boys beat you at jacks _again_?” She asked with a guffaw.

“No,” he snapped before he could stop himself, “and anyway, they cheat. I’m _thinking_ , ruminating over some critical things.”

And he was. He warily eyed his desk drawer, where he’d shoved the other unopened letters. He could guess what they’d say, and he didn’t want any part in it. How did they even know where he was? Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He’d made his position extremely clear the first time, he had nothing more to say. Somehow he didn’t think that would stop them.

“Well, when you’re done brooding—” damn her, he hated how she always caught him out “—come down. Mum’s gone to a W.I. doodah, so the house is blessedly quiet. Just us and Granddad figured we could have a game of gin.”

That did sound more appealing than the stacks of grading he had waiting for him. He also had several passages he wanted to pull for Rose before they met next week.  
  
Now, that was topic he would happily ruminate on.

They’d been meeting for over a month now, and John was exceedingly pleased with the progress Rose had made. He was fascinated to observe how her mind worked, to witness that glorious moment when understanding blossomed on her face— it was mesmerizing. She was a tenacious problem solver. She asked all the right questions— and she had so many of them. She was always challenging him to look at things freshly— the oldest histories, overanalyzed plots in literature, the most steadfast, scientifically proven theories, all made anew through her eyes and her constant question of _why?_ It was a pleasure to teach her. He wished all his students were more like her, although he quickly realized there were few people like Rose Tyler.

He was smitten; there was no other word for it. _Well_ , that wasn’t strictly true; there were heaps of other words— besotted, infatuated, captivated, enamoured, enthralled. There were turns of phrases too—mad or potty about, head over heels, bowled over by, swept off one’s feet by. It all equated to the same thing. He knew it, Donna knew it too and teased him mercilessly.

He just didn’t know what to do about it. 

\+ 

It was another week before John worked up the nerve to do anything. 

“I was thinking,” John began, taking a bite of his treacle tart, “that since the weather has been so fine lately, of taking a trip to Chatsworth.” He ran a hand through his hair, discreetly wiping the tacky pomade residue clinging to his fingers onto his trousers. “It just reopened to the public this winter, and I’ve never been, but they have one of the finest private art collections in the country, so it would be educational for all your diligent art studies. I hear they have drawings from many of the old masters, and a Rembrandt, plus they have a brilliant sculpture gallery. Oh,” he cried, building steam now as Rose’s brows rose higher and higher, “and their library, their library! I heard they have a first edition Hobbes’—” he stopped, teeth clacking as he quickly shut his mouth “uh, where was I? Oh yes,” he met her eyes, suddenly feeling nervous, “would you want to go?”

She smiled, a slow, blooming thing that tugged at her lips. “Okay,” she said, amusement colouring her voice. “That sounds nice. I’ve not really been anywhere since I moved here.” She took a sip of her tea, then added, “Just not this weekend if that’s all right with you?”

John nodded, grinning past the glimmer of disappointment. He’d been anticipating that they’d go as soon as possible. When he got a plan in his head, he hated to delay it. But she said yes, and really that’s what mattered, wasn’t it?

“Plans already?” He tried for casual and hoped she wouldn’t find him snooping. He wasn’t. _Well…_

“I have an old friend from London coming to visit.”

“Right! Well, that will be fun to catch up with an old girlfriend.”

“Actually,” she said, blushing, “it’s an old _boyfriend_ of mine. He wrote, saying he had some big surprise he had to tell us about in person.” John felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably at that. “Me and Mickey—” _Mickey, what kind of name was Mickey?— “_ grew up together, so we’ve always been close, even after things ended romantically between us.”

Romantically? Oh, _oh, no._

+

The rest of the week passed at a snail’s pace, this unknown _surprise_ looming, growing more and more horrible each time he thought about it. Best case scenario, Rickey the Idiot— as John now mentally referred to him— was relocating to Australia and was coming to say his final goodbyes. Worst case, well, he didn’t want to think about the worse case when it came to former suitors who had long histories with Rose.

Except he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He had a mountain of work to complete: tenth-year physics tests to finish marking, lesson plans to finalizing for his upper years’ classics class, seventh-year papers on the formation of the commonwealth to read through. Or maybe he’d go for a tramp this weekend. There were several old hiking trails he’d found in an old guide book, and was making his way through them steadily.

His instinct was to run, to put as much distance as he could between him and this gaping maw of uncertainty and potential heartache.   
  
“What if he’s come looking to rekindle things, or God forbid, asks her to marry him?” He whispered harshly to Donna, mindful of Sylvia in the next room, as they sat at the kitchen table playing cards. He’s spent the day locked in his room working, but now Saturday evening was upon him, and he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, brooding over the could-be’s.

“Oh, stop your whinging,” Donna sighed in exasperation, sorting through her cards. She’d trounced him so far, but he didn’t think it was a fair contest considering his _preoccupation_ at the moment. “If you yank on that hair of yours any harder, it’ll start coming out in clumps.” John’s hands flew from his head as if burned. He was vain enough to admit his hair was one of his better features. It had only just started to grow out when he moved to Bucknall. He could still remember hacking at it with the scissors in the hospital, desperate to make himself less like the man he saw in the mirror. It hadn’t worked, and he’d spent the following months reaching up in frustration to pull at phantom hair.

“Who’s this girl you’re on about?” Wilf asked, peering around his newspaper.   
  
“Rose Tyler,” Donna said offhandedly, “y’ know, Moreen Prentice’s cousin. The young, pretty one with the Lana Turner hair.” 

“Oh,” Wilf smiled, winking at John. “She is a pretty one. I don’t understand you, John. All this hemming and hawing. If you like a girl, be direct with her and make your intentions known. How’s she to know she’s got options if you don’t tell her. You’d think livin’ through a war would teach you that life is short.” He went back to his paper with a sigh, “You’ve got only yourself to blame, son if she ends up with some other fella’s ring on her finger.”

Donna at least had the decency to look sympathetic as she buttoned down a grin. John scowled, ashamed to begrudgingly acknowledge that Wilf had a point. Before the war, he didn’t do domestics— relationships that pinned him down anywhere for too long. He’d met lots of interesting people in his travels, many of whom he would even consider friends, but that wasn’t the same as opening himself up to others. But the war changed everything for so many people, and he found himself reevaluating what he wanted. After so much death, he wanted to live. Maybe they’d only just gotten to know one another, but John had been soft on Rose for far longer. He’d always thought he’d been rather obvious, but maybe he hadn’t?

In his dithering, had he let her slip through his fingers?

This depressing thought plagued John the rest of the night, his usual nightly terrors now mixed with images of Rose on the arm of some unknown handsome man. Her shining smiles for _him_ now; the soft, feminine smell of her, like Yardley’s, for _his_ nose alone. By Sunday morning, he’d practically worn a hole through his bedroom floor with all his pacing. Unable to stand it any longer, John dressed, taking careful efforts with his appearance to mask how bedraggled he felt, and strode out the door, Donna calling after him. Rose and her family didn’t live too far from the Nobles, and soon enough, he found himself swiftly rapping on their front door, plastering on his best grin. A short blonde woman in her mid-forties answered, and one look at her was enough to tell him that this was the formidable mother he’d heard about, Jackie Tyler. He vaguely recognized her from some community event or another Donna had dragged him to in the past.

“Hello,” he said brightly, “I’m John Smith. I’m a friend of Rose’s. Is she in perhaps?”

Jackie eyed him critically, “So you’re the tutor, then?” She said, hand going to her hip. “S’bout time we met you, you better come through.” She moved to the side, making room for John to step into the entryway.

“Rose,” Jackie hollered, leading him down the hallway, “your tutoring fella’s here.”

“John?” Rose called out, surprise evident in her voice. He followed Jackie through an open doorway into what looked like a small lounge, where Rose stood, smoothing out her trousers. Already he felt better. “What are you doing here?” She asked, brows furrowed in bewilderment.

At her feet sat a boy playing with a wooden train set. His hair was more of a reddish blonde, but other than that, they looked remarkably similar. This was obviously Tony. He looked up at John with interest, his eyes the same colour as Rose’s.

“What are those?” Tony nodded towards the three books John had clutched in his arm: a rather dry tomb on the War of the Roses, and two novels, _Little Dorrit_ and _The Hobbit_. They were his excuse to be here, his insurance of not seeming a total nutter. He’d meant to give Rose the former at their last session but had forgotten, and the latter they’d chatted about.

“Oh, just some books I’ve brought for Rose. Actually, one is for you. Rose mentioned that you liked to read, and several of my students enjoyed this, so I thought you might as well.”

When he looked at Rose, her smile had softened into something tender and warm. “That’s very kind of you, John,” she turned and poked Tony in the shoulder, “what do you say, Tony?”  
  
Tony rolled his eyes, reaching for the book John had brought him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, attention already lost, gazing at the cover as he hurried out of the room. 

“Can we get you a cuppa?” Rose asked, gesturing to an armchair for John to take a seat.  
  
“I don’t want to intrude. I know you have company.” He _did_ want to intrude, though. He surreptitiously glanced at her fingers, which he was relieved to see were unadorned.

Thank God and all the other deities he didn’t believe in.

“It’s no imposition,” Rose said quickly, waving him off, and with a pleased, lopsided grin, he sat. It was silent for a few seconds, and he watched as Rose and her mother engaged in a soundless exchange, before Jackie gave a loud sigh.  
  
“I’ll make tea, then shall I? It’s only my bloody job every other day of the week.” She said shrilly, eyes narrowed at Rose, who smiled benignly in return. Whatever battle of wills had just occurred, Rose had evidently won. Her smile became apologetic and bashful as Jackie left, and she turned back to him.

“So,” Rose pushed her hair back from her face, “what books did you bring me?” John grinned, passing the remaining books to her. Rose traced her fingers along the cover of one, and again he found himself staring at the movement of her lacquered nails.  
  
“That history one is a bit dry,” he said, “but it provides a clear overview of the pertinent facts, so I thought it would be helpful for next week.” Rose moved to the other one, and he rubbed at his neck, “And that one I just thought you’d like. From our earlier discussion, you seemed interested in the themes surrounding Dickens’ social commentary on Victorian society, and _Little Dorrit_ does that well.”  
  
Rose’s eyes, so dark and warm, seemed to almost sparkle as she smiled, and he felt his heart galloping in his chest. He thought he would do just about anything to make her look at him that way again. 

“So,” he said, looking around, aiming for nonchalance, “where’s your friend, Mr. Mickey?”

“Oh,” Rose cried with a laugh, “blimey, you’ll never believe it! That ‘ _big surprise’_ was his new wife, Martha.” It suddenly felt like all the air had left the room; like John could feel every blood cell in his body. Rickey the Idiot, the man John had spent days wracked with anxiety over, had a secret wife _who wasn’t going to be Rose._ He felt like crying with relief, like dancing a samba around the room, like pulling Rose to her feet and snogging her till the breath left her body. Instead, he smiled serenely. “You should have heard the tongue lashing Mum gave him. But really, she’s pleased for him, we all are.” She added with a fond, wistful smile. “Martha’s just lovely and training to be a doctor to boot. She joined the Medical Corp. during the war and tended to Mick when he was wounded in Italy. It’s all very romantic.”  
  
Jackie rejoined them a few moments later, tea for all in hand, and sat down next to Rose on the small settee.

“I was just telling John about Mickey and Martha,” Rose said, passing John a cup. As he took the saucer, he made sure that their hands brushed and watched with satisfaction as Rose flushed. He was also pleased to see how, without thought, Rose had fixed his tea just how he liked it. This was something which Jackie noticed, too, from the appraising look she gave him and then her daughter.

“That boy, if he’d pulled that when his Gran was alive, she’d have had his hide. So Mr. Smith,” Jackie said abruptly, turning her piercing gaze on him, “I expect you’ll be joining us for lunch?”

His eyes slid to Rose’s, looking for any indication of what she’d want. Her face, however, was vexingly unreadable.  
  
“Oh no, Mrs. Tyler, now I really couldn’t impose on you that way.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jackie said dismissively, “Mickey and Martha are stopping in before they head back to London, and Moreen’s gone for the day, so we’ve plenty of food. Besides,” she said with a grin, “I’ve made my special shepherd’s pie.”

\+ 

Jackie’s shepherd’s pie _was_ special, in that he’d never eaten anything quite like it before now. He hoped he never would again.

“You’re a skinny little thing,” Jackie said, plopping seconds, of which he absolutely did _not_ want, onto his plate. “this’ll stick to your ribs.” It certainly would. Rose threw him an apologetic smile, which he returned with a small quirk of his lips.

Despite the food, it was the most agreeable lunch he’d had in some time. It was like seeing Rose in a new light, in her natural habitat. The way she lovingly bickered with her mother, goofed about with her brother, and playfully teased Mickey.

Mickey, for his part, when greeting John had squeezed his hand so forcefully, John had winced when released from the handshake. Rose just rolled her eyes.

Mickey was a mechanic and decent enough bloke, he supposed. He had a mind for machines, which turned out to be something they had in common. Rose had been right about Martha, though, she _was_ lovely. And her accomplishments were twice as impressive, considering all the racial and gender barriers she must experience. He could imagine how Martha and Mickey might have found comfort and love in each other in a world still full of prejudice and intolerance, especially in wartime when xenophobia was at its heights. John and Martha chatted animately about the National Health Service Act, scheduled to come into effect in a few months. When the war came up, as it was inevitably to, John felt himself break out in a cold sweat. However, he was saved by Tony, who, upon learning John had once been a pilot, had lit up in unrestrained excitement. Rose looked cautiously between the two of them, eyes flickering over his face as if looking for a sign of his distress, ready to reign in her little brother if needed.  
  
“Wow,” Tony sighed in amazement. “What’s it like?” He asked with such childlike awe that for the moment, John forgot all the hurt and could focus on what he’d loved about it. This didn’t have to be about the war, he’d been a pilot before and had adored it. It could be about that again. 

“There’s no feeling like it,” he said with a wistful smile, catching Rose’s eye with a small nod. He appreciated her concern, but he truly felt okay talking about it for once. “You can see everything up that high. Miles and miles, as far as the eye can see, spread out below like a patchwork quilt on your bed.” 

Interest thoroughly piqued now, Tony zinged question after question John’s way, flitting between a myriad of topics with no rhyme or reason to his thought process. First, about the book John had brought him, which Tony thought was a bit of a slog to get through so far, but John promised got much better. Then it switched to astronomy, then football— _what you mean you don’t like football?_ Tony had cried in bewilderment and horror when John admitted he cared little for sports, except the upcoming Olympics, of which they were both very keen on, and then back to flying. Shortly after pudding, a rather enjoyable Victoria sponge to his surprise, it was time for the Smith-Jones to head off. They made their tearful goodbyes to the Tyler women, with promises to write more, and then it was John’s turn to take his leave.  
  
“Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Tyler. It was kind of you to let me foist myself upon you all this afternoon.” Jackie shooed him off with a wave of her hands.

“Next time you come, I’ll show you my fossil collection,” Tony said brightly, before barrelling back up the stairs at such a tread it sounded like he might go right through them.

“Sorry about him,” Rose shook her head in dismay. “I think he’s chuffed not to be around a bunch of _boring_ women.”

John laughed, rocking back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets. “Oh, he’s a good lad. I can see where he gets his burning curiosity, though.”  
  
Rose flushed, grinning shyly. “He’s twice as bad as I ever was at that age.” She fiddled with the sleeve of her cardigan, a dusty pink one with little coloured rosebuds that she often wore, and licked her lips. He suddenly realized how desperate he was to kiss her. It was always there, like a little itch at the back of his mind, but now, it surged like an ache.

“Thanks for the books,” she said softly, fiddling with her hair.  
  
“You’re welcome, thank you for a lovely afternoon.” He paused, tugging at his ear, “Rose I— I hope it’s not presumptuous to say, but I was rather hoping that our upcoming trip to Chatsworth could be seen not as a field trip, but more as, well, a date I suppose. As in us, doing something together as a—” he took a breath, “As a couple.” 

Rose blinked, her eyes wide and dark, then swiftly smothered a giggle with her hand. She pulled her hand away with a smile, tongue peeking between her teeth in that way that always made his palms sweat. “I’d like that.”

“Brilliant!” He exclaimed, awash in relief. “That’s brilliant. Then it’s a date.”  
  
Rose took his hand, twining their fingers together. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Martha would most likely have been a nurse during the war. Female doctors of colour would have been unheard of during this era, especially in Britain. I've combined American and British history here a bit, as there is little scholarly information about women of colour who served in Britain, its almost exclusively about African American nurses. I imagine that as a black woman, Martha would have been assigned to non-white soldiers and prisoners of war, which were the patients that the African American nursing corp. were assigned to during WWII. 
> 
> [2] Two significant events that happened in the summer of 1948 were the creation of the NHS and the Olympics, which were held in London that year.


	5. Chapter Five

As arranged, the next weekend, John and Rose went to Chatsworth House.

When John had picked her up that morning, she hadn’t known what to expect. He arrived in an old Austin, borrowed from the Nobles and belonging to Donna’s late father. They drove to a picturesque little village a few miles outside of Bucknall, where John, now shouldering a tatty rucksack, enthusiastically declared that they’d walk the rest of the way. Rose glanced at her feet, glad she’d worn her penny loafers instead of her everyday service oxfords. Together they made their way across a single track bridge and down a narrow footpath, until a fancy golden gate came into view, and further on the house which glowed in the morning sun. Rose was sure she’d never seen anything as grand or imposing as the stately home, with its sweeping lawns and gardens, and its amazing water features.

Once inside, however, Rose changed her mind. The inside was even more spectacularly grand than the exteriors.

Rose flushed with pleasure every time John leaned in close to whisper in her ear, hand warm and solid on the small of her back, his own running commentary drowning out their guide as they walked through room, after opulent room, straggling further and further behind the rest of the group. Though it had temporarily been a school during the war, it had lost none of its splendour. The gold framed portraits and paintings that adorned the walls, plush oriental rugs and silk wallpapers, the sparkle of crystal chandeliers, the ornate antique furnishings. It was magnificent and impossible to believe that real people actually lived this way. In the library, John had bounced about like a tot in a toy shop and had pouted like one too, when the librarian haughtily stated that the books were _far too precious and valuable for just anyone to touch._ As they left, John muttered loudly about what a shame it was they sold off their original Shakespeare’s.

“Now, that’s a man I would have liked to share a pint with.” He said with a wistful sigh. 

Later, walking through the marble gallery, she felt moved by the serene, timeless beauty surrounding her. After the tour, they wandered through the gardens. “ _Capability Brown designed many of these,”_ John had said, taking her hand and pulling her down another hedged path. Eventually, they made their way to a large pond with a fountain shooting in a wide spray of water from the middle. They sat in the grass, the sun beating on them as John removed two small cloth bundles from his bag and two apples.

“Scotch eggs from the bakery,” he said with a small grin. “Not as fancy as what the Cavendish’s would eat for lunch, maybe, but I like them.”   
  
“Good enough for me!” She replied, biting into her with relish. They washed their lunch down with a thermos of tea, Rose laughing when John produced two tin mugs with a flourish.

“So,” John began, biting into his apple with a loud crunch, “what do you think?”

“It’s lovely,” Rose sighed, taking in the view surrounding them, before turning back John. “I never did anything like this when I lived in London. All that cultural stuff was for tourists, not us. I was never interested in museums or anything like this before, but now that I understand what I’m looking at, it’s like I can appreciate it for the first time. I guess I just needed someone to show me.” Rose blushed, looking away in embarrassment to stare at the ripples in the pond as water splashed the surface.

“That’s wonderful, Rose,” John said encouragingly. When he took her hand in his, squeezing gently, she looked up to meet his steady gaze. “I’m happy that I get to be that person.” 

“Me too,” she murmured, gripped by the look in his wide, expressive eyes. She’d never seen eyes like his, both ancient and youthful all at once. There were times when they seemed to dance, shining with excitement, or mirth; times when they clouded with some unfathomable emotion, something dark and raw; times when the vulnerability or uncertainty was unmistakable. And there were times like now, times when they seemed to burn with an unassuming certainty.

John grinned, boyish and wry, and completely charming. Rose felt her heart flutter at the sight of it. “I’ve not done this in some time,” he murmured, head dipping towards her, “so please correct me if I’m wrong, but when two individuals find themselves on a date like outing, generally, it’s acceptable to share a kiss, is it not?”

She returned his sly grin, unconsciously wetting her lips, and watched as his gaze flitted down to her lips, then back up to her eyes. “Generally, yes, it’s acceptable,” she said breathlessly as John’s face came closer to hers, his breath now warm on her cheek.  
  
“Oh, good,” John smiled, lips slanting over hers, millimetres from touching.  
  
“Good,” Rose echoed, and then he kissed her. It was soft at first, just the slightest pressure of his lips slotting in against hers. Then he cupped her jaw, changing the angle, and suddenly it was more— firmer pressure as he drew her bottom lip between his, and she parted her lips and allowed him. His tongue did slow lazy circles in her mouth, turning her thoughts to mush with a breathy whimper.

At the sound, they sprang apart, lips swollen and glistening. Rose glanced around with a fierce blush, unable to meet his eye for a moment, as John ran an unsteady hand through his hair.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat, “right, should we push off?” He hopped up, his hand reaching down for her, and helped her to her feet. “Now,” he stated, fully back in exploring mode as he pulled her along, “let’s check out the Cascade before we leave.”   
  
They held hands the rest of the way. 

+

John dropped her back at home in the late afternoon, the sun just beginning to dip beneath the clouds.

He’d been unusually quiet on the drive back, only giving a weak grin when she’d ribbed him about his normally madcap steering, and not his usual toothy, manic smile. Worry began to sink like a stone in her stomach. Was he regretting that kiss? God, she hoped not. She hadn’t been snogged like that in ages, and certainly not by someone she was as keen on as she was about John.

“John,” she said softly, hesitation thinly veiled. “Is everything all right? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

He looked over at her, blinking as if to clear some fog in his head. “Yes, sorry, sorry,” he murmured, a wonky grin playing at his lips. “Was off in dunderland for a moment there. Donna calls me Spaceman, says I live in my head.”

Rose smiled, “I can see why she’d say that.” John ran his hands along the wheel, eyes squinting in thought. “Well,” she said, fidgeting the longer they sat idle, “I better get going. Mum won’t like me dawdling, especially in a parked car with a man.”

John’s eyes shot over to her, brows so high they practically touched his fringe. “She doesn’t really worry, does she?”   
  
Rose giggled at his gobsmacked expression, “No, I was only teasin’.” She sobered, “I should go, though. Thanks for today, I had a lovely time.”

“Rose, wait,” John’s hand shot out as she turned, stilling her arm on the door. “I’m sorry I’m being such a pillock, please don’t go yet.” She settled, eyeing him warily. “I hope— I hope you don’t think I’m pressing my advantage, or that any potential shift in our relationship will impact me helping you.” She went to interject, but he stopped her with a shake of his head, “No, let me finish. I take my role as your tutor seriously. Really, I do. You’re so clever, Rose, and I’d never want to be a barrier to you furthering your education.” He ran a hand through his hair again, looking more askew than ever. “And maybe it would have been best not to complicate things, but I couldn’t—” he paused, reaching out to brush his fingers along the curve of her cheek, his thumb swiping across her bottom lip. “I couldn’t help falling for you. If I’m shamefully honest, it’s partly why I was so eager to help you in the first place, which makes me feel like a randy old lecher.” She laughed at that, and he grinned, “I guess what I’m trying to say is, no matter what happens between us, it doesn’t change anything about our arrangement. Except maybe that I’ll now accept a new form of payment for services rendered.” She let out a shocked, squeak of laughter, and John’s face went red, his eyes widening in panic. “Oh crikey! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! That came out dreadfully wrong. Please forget I said—”   
  
Rose leaned in, silencing his spluttering with a kiss. “Thank-you for saying that,” she said when they broke apart, “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but I’m not worried. Above all, you’re a good man, John Smith, and I fancy you rotten as well, so we’re fine by my book.”

John smiled his real one this time, the one that crinkled his eyes and stretched his cheeks. “What else does your book say, Miss Tyler?”

“That you should bloody well kiss me again,” he immediately leaned in, but she stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “Another time, and preferably not outside my house, where my mum and cousin are definitely peering through the window at us.”

He glanced over her shoulder, the curtain in the lounge room window fluttering ever so slightly.

“I like your book,”

She grinned, placing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Me, too.” 

+

“He hasn’t been inappropriate with you or anything, has he?” Her mum asked later, Tony tucked up in bed and her and Moreen sat around the wireless while Rose read. “A man his age, interested in a young woman like you? I wasn’t born yesterday.”   
  
“What?” Rose cried, looking up startled from her book. “Mum! No, of course not!”

“And those tutorin’ sessions?”   
  
Rose blushed, “Are just that, tutoring sessions. He’s helping me finish school, that’s all!” 

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Mo said, her knitting needles clicking. “Jenny, who’s a maid up at the House, she said that before coming to Foxglove, your Mr. Smith had been in a funny farm. Said he hollered in his sleep, thrashing about, gave the rest of the staff a right fright.”

Rose felt livid and heartsick at that. That people were spreading idle gossip like that about John infuriated her. “Come off it, Mo, what rot!” She snapped, cheeks flooding with heat. “You know he served, yeah? Maybe Jenny should shut her gob and think about what brave men like John had to go through to keep us all safe.”

“Rose!” Jackie cried in shock, while Mo sat, looking stupefied. Rose snatched her book from the table and stormed out of the room.   
  
How could they say that? Rose thought, laying in bed, still fuming with anger. They didn’t know John, not the way she did. They couldn’t see how sad or scarred he was underneath that cheerful, boyish exterior. Shell shock, or sadness or whatever it was, it didn’t matter because John was _John_ and he was the best man she’d ever met.

And when he kissed her… she knew him. She did.

Except… as much as Rose hated to think about it, for all she knew, Jenny could be right. Rose knew so little about John’s past other than stories about travelling. Any mention beyond that had been vague and uncomfortable. Home and family mentioned briefly and only in the past tense—war service he resolutely refused to talk about. No mentions of his childhood, his schooling, or even any friends apart from Donna it seemed.

Who was this man she was rapidly losing her heart to?   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] If anyone is interested, Chatsworth House has an excellent online collection.


	6. Chapter Six

John and Rose soon found themselves settling into a routine of sorts as spring went on. Work picked up for John as term began to wind down for the year, but they continued to meet diligently once a week, methodically working their way through Rose’s subject list. John had received word that the SSEC had scheduled School Certificates examinations for the first two weeks of October. That gave Rose the summer to properly prepare, with the knowledge that she could always sit the winter exam in the new year if she felt she wasn’t ready. But John knew Rose was determined to sit them in October, and he would do his very best to help her achieve her goal. If they stuck to the strict schedule he had devised for the rest of the term, then they’d be in a good place come summer when John could increase their tutoring sessions once the school year was over. 

Except now, studying was dispersed with snogging. Really bloody brilliant snogging.

He knew they should stop, that they needed to set clear boundaries to ensure that these meetings didn’t devolve into, _well_ , uh, behaviour that wasn’t strictly _appropriate_ for his place of work. He knew this, he did, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He couldn’t stop staring at her— eyes longingly tracing the curve of her jaw, the contour of her lips pursed in concentration or thought, the determination that burned in her warm brown eyes. He couldn’t stop kissing her, revelling in the freedom that he could—celebratory kisses to mark successes, consoling kisses to ease her frustration or disappointment; the taste of her jaw, or her neck, or the little patch of skin behind her ear. Worst of all, though, he couldn’t stop touching her. It was like a compulsion, the urge to feel her— the soft skin of her arm, her dainty little wrist, his fingers skimming the length of her spine, resting at the small of her back. His chair sliding closer and closer till their knees pressed against one another, hips and thighs touching, scalding him through his clothes. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever been able to holdout before. He felt like a teenager again, raging with hormones and the first flushes of love. Except he was sure, he never felt quite like this at that age. That potent cocktail of shame, confusion, and desire that marked his schoolboy days, grappling in the dark of night with feelings and sensations he was too young to truly understand.

Rose made him feel like he was floating, like the harsh realities of the world, and his past couldn’t touch him, buoyed by the strength of Rose’s conviction that he was worthy of her time, trust and affection.

She made him better.

“John,” Rose huffed, “I’m trying to work out this equation. You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, removing his hand from her knee where it had been tracing circles.

“No, you’re not,” she chuckled, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek before turning back to her work.

No, he wasn’t.

+

“You know, I’ve got a feeling I’ve put Matron Redfern’s nose out of joint,” Rose said, hand clutched around the nape of his neck, fingers threaded in his hair, as they cycled back into town that evening. They hit a small depression in the gravel, and her grip tightened, making him gasp as a spike of pleasure spiralled through him.

Bloody hell.   
  
“What?” John croaked, cheeks flooding with heat. “W-who, Joan? What would ever make you think that?”

Rose threw him an incredulous look over her shoulder, and he stared back, eyes wide with confusion. “You really have no idea? She clearly fancies you. She always looks like someone’s salted her tea when she sees us together.”

“What?” He squeaked, his voice rising. He’d tried to be discreet about his relationship with Rose, not wanting to subject himself to gossip, and if he was honest, unsure what his colleagues would think about John being romantically involved with someone he was tutoring. “Joan’s a widow!”

“So?” Rose laughed, “That doesn’t mean she can’t be interested in other men.”

“ _Well_ ,” he spluttered, babbling now, “I mean, she’s— she’s a nice enough person, but we hardly know each other, apart from casual pleasantries and shoptalk. She’s certainly never given me any indication that she had other designs. Besides,” he murmured lowly in her ear, “it’s a moot point anyway. I’m mad about someone else.” He placed a kiss just below her earlobe, and she shivered.

“Yeah?” She asked breathily, her small hands curling around his wrists.  
  
“Yes,” he replied, resting his chin on her shoulder and peddled them home.

\+ 

In June, Bucknall held their annual well dressing. A long-held tradition throughout Derbyshire, well dressing involved adorning water sources with intricate pictures made from flower petals, leaves, and other natural materials. While the dressing itself was a ceremonial event, a strange mixture of pages and Christian practices, the town always held a fete afterwards, which brought out the entire community.

The first year, John had been living up at Foxglove and had bogged off both her ladyship and Luke’s invitations to attend. The last thing he’d wanted was to be around so much happiness. The next year, he’d gone with Donna to the ceremony, fascinated by the surreal and out of time like ritual of it all, but had fled the moment he realized Sylvia had taken the opportunity to try to set him up with yet another _nice young girl_ she knew. This year, however, Rose had invited him to go with her family, an equally terrifying prospect. John didn’t have much experience with families. His own had been distant and reserved, and he’d been shipped off to the academy at such a young age he hardly knew them really. Only home for summers and winter break. Even in his travels, he avoided getting too involved with others. He’d never been entangled in others’ lives like he was in Bucknall. 

But before he had time to brood anymore on it, Tony came racing down the street,sweeping him up in a whirlwind of excitement and pulled him into the throng of people. John could hear Jackie’s hollering after them, the words mingling with Rose’s laughter, and it made his heart swell.  
  
“C’mon,” Tony cried, practically vibrating in his eagerness, “you’re my partner in the paper aeroplane contest.”

+

Later that evening, John and Rose took a stroll. It had been a day full of activity. The contest, which of course they’d won, had quickly been followed by fairway games, a dog agility show and copious sweet tastings before Tony had bunked off for a round of footie with his mates. He’d also formally met Cousin Mo, who he quickly realized was just the same as Jackie, if not somehow rougher. It was no surprise they were cousins.

“Jam tastings, Rose! All the jams and marmalades and oh, the _curds_ you could think of. If I’d known this was what happened at fetes, I would never have skipped out.”

Rose laughed, bumping her shoulder with his. “I’m not sure they appreciated you enjoying it with your fingers, though.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Well, I’m glad you had fun. Thanks for being so good with Tony, he adores you, y’ know.”  
  
“And why wouldn’t he?” He preened. “I’m very impressive.” Rose rolled her eyes, and he grinned, raising their joined hands to press a kiss against hers.  
  
“John!” A familiar voice called, and he turned to see an attractive, immaculately dressed older woman waving at them.  
  
“Good evening, your ladyship,” John greeted, smiling as she made her way towards them. He felt Rose stiffen beside him, dropping his hand to fix her hat. “I was just saying to Rose how much I liked all the jams.”

Lady Sarah chuckled, “I’m glad to hear it. I’m happy to see you attended this year.” She eyed Rose curiously, gaze flickering between them, and John jumped.

“Oh, sorry! This is my friend Rose Tyler,” he motioned Rose with a smile, “Rose, this is Lady Sarah Jane Smith.” Rose and Lady Sarah nodded to each other politely. “Lady Sarah is the head of the well dressing organizing committee, and every year she tries to get me involved.”

“And somehow you always find a reason to say no. I see that wasn’t the case this time, though.” She gave Rose another inquiring glance before fixing her gloves. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen you, John. You should come up to the house for dinner. Luke will be home from school next week, and I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you.” She smiled at him fondly, then turned to address Rose. “You too, Miss Tyler. Any woman who can get John’s nose out a book must be a marvel.” 

“Thank you, m’lady, that’s very kind of you,” Rose murmured with a small, tight smile. His brows furrowed at the sight.  
  
“Excellent, I’ll write to sort out the details. I’ll say goodnight, then.” Lady Sarah smiled, reaching to pat John’s arm in affection, and smiled to Rose. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tyler.” They watched her turn, making her way up the gravel road that led to Foxglove House. 

“Well, that was nice of her,” he said, turning back to Rose. “I love Mrs. Thompson’s cooking. You’re in for a treat.”

“Right,” Rose muttered, looking anything but excited.

+

When John and Rose arrived for dinner a week later, Lady Sarah was there to greet them in the foyer. She ushered them into the drawing-room for pre-dinner drinks, and Rose held tight to his arm. Dinner was delicious, as it always was, and Mrs. Thompson even made a mouthwatering banana tarte tatin, just for him. After dinner, they retired to the library for coffee and tea.

It was nice to be back at Foxglove, John thought, looking around the library fondly. He’d spent many hours in here, buried in the excellent collection the Smiths had accumulated over the years. Beside him, Luke chatted happily about his studies and the friends he’d made. John was proud to hear that Luke was excelling at school, but he certainly wasn’t surprised to hear it. Luke’s intellect was off the charts. His job as tutor had been less about helping Luke academically, and more about preparing him for going away to school the next year. He sneaked a look at Rose, who sat quietly conversing with Lady Sarah on the other side of the room. _‘She’s very pretty,’_ Lady Sarah had whispered to him on their way to dinner, and of course, she was right. Rose looked beautiful tonight. She was _always_ beautiful, but there was an elegance to her this evening, her hair pinned and curled, lips red as rubies. But she’d also been reserved in comparison to how sociable and expressive Rose usually was. The others wouldn’t notice, she put up a friendly front, but he could sense something was off. He furtively glanced at them again, catching the hand Lady Sarah placed gently on Rose’s arm, and the little look Rose cast his way.

“Rose,” he called suddenly, anxious about what they could be discussing so quietly. “Luke was just saying how much he was enjoying his French lessons,” he grinned, addressing the room now, “I tried to get Rose to learn French, told her I’m a brilliant French tutor, as Luke will attest to, but she wouldn’t have it.” Lady Sarah and Luke both chuckled at this, and Rose gave another uncomfortable grin that didn’t reach her eyes. She looked embarrassed. “But Rose is brilliant,” he said quickly, not sure what had caused Rose’s discomfort, but eager to fix it. He smiled, gazing at her affectionately, “She can pick up anything she puts her mind towards.” Rose’s tight smile soften somewhat, but she remained subdued the rest of the evening.

+

The walk back to town was quiet. John had taken Rose’s hand as they started down the path, but he found his palm growing clammy the longer the silence stretched, and the urge to drop it was growing stronger.

Eventually, he broke, unable to stand it any longer. “What’s the matter?” He asked, stopping to face her.

“Noth—” Rose began, then paused, looking down at her shoes. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I’ve never done anything like that before, dining at a mansion with a proper Lady. I guess I felt a little out of place tonight. No one did anything,” she said quickly, “Lady Sarah was real kind. I just—” she paused, looking down again, “I felt common.”  
  
“Rose Tyler,” he said firmly, tilting her face up to his. “you are anything but common. You are fantastic and brilliant, just as you are.” She smiled shyly for a moment, before it slid again, upset once more. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Before you came to Bucknall, before tutoring Luke— where were you?”

He dropped her chin, taking a step back. “Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

He ran a hand through his hair, clutching at the strands. He could feel his hands begin to shake. Rose reached for his hands, grasping them tightly between hers. “Please, John,” she implored, “please just tell me.”

“Why does it matter?” The words came out sharper than John had planned, and Rose cringed.

“Because,” Rose exclaimed, “how can you say I’m ‘ _fantastic’_ and ‘ _brilliant,’_ and still not trust me enough to open up? Meeting Lady Sarah and hearing her talk about you and your history together…you use to be close, and you never mention her or anything about your past. These weeks have been wonderful, and there are moments when I’ve felt closer to you than I’ve ever felt with anyone. But I realize that I hardly know anything about you.”

“This is who I am,” he shot back, “right here, right now, all right? All that counts is here and now, and this is me.” He ran a hand across his face, pinching at the skin. How could she say she didn’t know him? She knew him _,_ she saw him, saw the pain and made him better. His past shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t who he was now.

She reached for his hands again, sliding hers up his arms till they rested on his shoulders. “What kind of future do we have if you can’t confide in me?” Her hands continued up to his neck, resting to cup his face. Her touch was a balm, as it always was, and despite himself, he nuzzled into her. “I promise, John, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters to me is you. You can trust me.” 

John’s eyes slid shut, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t tell Rose everything, _he couldn’t._ Even the thought of it made him shake with shame and dispair. But he could lose her like he’d lost everyone if he didn’t at least try. He took a deep breath.

“I was in a convalescence home before Bucknall.” He said weakly, eyes cast anywhere, but at Rose’s, which he knew were shining with emotions he couldn’t bear to label. “The war was… there was a _difficult_ mission, and it left me in a bad way, both on the outside and the inside. My body healed, but my mind…” It was a whacking great oversimplification, but it was the best John could do at the moment.  
  
Rose smoothed his fringe back, fingers curling behind his ears in a caress. “And Gallifrey?” She asked softly.  
  
“Destroyed.” He choked out, his guilt and grief like a fist in his throat. “Bombed out during the war. It’s nothing but rubble and ruins now. There’s no one, I’m all on my own.”

Rose wrapped her arms around him, and he felt something in him crumble. He slumped into her, burying his face in her shoulder and clutching at her. Rose’s fingers soothingly combed through his hair, fingers dragging along his scalp.

“You are not alone, John.” She said ardently, lips brushing his ear. “There’s me, and all the people that care about you here in Bucknall and everywhere in the world you’ve made friends or touched people’s lives.”

He clung to her, blinking back the hot sting of tears. If she knew, she wouldn’t say it. More omissions and oversimplifications, but he needed Rose. _He needed her._

Rose pulled back, her face breaking out into a watery grin when she looked at him. “I got lipstick all over you,” she laughed, pulling a handkerchief from her handbag to dab at his face.

“I don’t care,” he said fervently, “I’ll wear them like a badge of honour.” She giggled, soft and sweet, and he stilled her hand. “Rose, what you said about…us,” she flushed, and he ducked his head to keep her gaze, “I feel that same closeness. The way you make me feel is— it’s— it’s indescribable, beyond comprehension.”  
  
Rose smiled, pressing their joined hands into his chest as she leaned up to softly kiss him. “That’s good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Well dressings are unique to Derbyshire and many towns/villages have big festivals to celebrate it. If anyone is interested in learning more about them this is a great resource: http://www.welldressing.com/extra.php
> 
> [2] Dialogue directly pulled from S01E02-"End of the World"
> 
> [3] Character information about Luke comes from "The Sarah Jane Adventures"


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets chapter gets borderline saccharine, then takes a sharp 180 in the opposite direction. Warnings for minor sexual content.

Things were different after that night at Foxglove. As if some invisible blockade had been lifted between her and John. He felt open in a way he hadn’t before, now that he wasn’t trying to plaster over the pain with mania and deflection. Rose knew he had nightmares. And while they didn’t talk about what filled these dreams, it was enough for her that he acknowledged them, and in turn, let her soothe them in her way with a kiss to his forehead or brow, fingers gentle along the dark circles under his eyes. 

More importantly, John talked about Gallifrey. She watched his expression grow wistful as he described the snowy mountains and valleys coloured red with alpine bearberry, the vast silver poplars on the grounds of Lungbarrow, his family’s estate. He talked about his family and growing up with all the privileges and expectations that came with belonging to an influential political family on Gallifrey. His austere and uncompromising father, his mother, who, while loving and kind in her own way, was utterly subservient to her husband, and his brother Irving, who died when John was small. Rose had long suspected that John had no living family, but to hear it confirmed broke her heart all the same. He talked about his childhood, his troubled youth at boarding school, and, as he spoke, a deeper understanding of this unconventional man who’d captured her heart began to form. A lonely little boy who grew into a wilful and mischievous teenager, disillusioned with the world he’d been born into, who used his vast intellect not to exceed academically, but to rebel against the establishment.

When she’d laughingly asked what young renegade John would think of him being a teacher now, John had groaned and muttered something about how no one ever should give a toss about what ‘ _that_ _wanker’_ thought.

+

Summer arrived dry but relatively cool. This, however, didn’t deter John, who was chomping at the bit to get out and do things now that the school year was done. They still met diligently for sessions, now hosted at Rose’s kitchen table, or the café by the haberdashery. Sometimes they went outside too, stretched out on a blanket in the grass when the weather was particularly fine. 

When Rose wasn’t working, she joined John on his excursions, taking long hikes through the moors, up to the summits of Mam Tor, the cliffs Stanage Edge, and the Roaches, and out to Kinder Scout to see the cascading waterfalls. It was magical, so unlike anything she’d ever seen before moving to the country. And through John’s knowledge and enthusiasm, it was made even better. Sometimes Tony came with them, and they’d head to the canal to play pooh sticks, or go swimming, even wading along the reeds in search of _biodiversity_ as John put it. Jackie loved when Tony joined them, it kept him out of trouble, and he was undoubtedly going to learn something if John was around.

Often Tony was happy to roam along the banks, searching for things that captured the hearts of all boys— bugs and frogs and other crawly, slimy things— as he did now.

Rose and John were stretched out on the grass, Rose reading Chaucer aloud while John kept a mindful eye on her brother. John lay quietly as she read, slowly dragging his fingers through the grass. When he turned to prop himself on an elbow, his knuckles brushed against her where her summery day dress had ridden up. She would almost have guessed he didn’t realize, until he drew his finger gently up the back of her thigh, stopping at the hem. She looked up, and he held her gaze, the corners of his mouth sliding to the smallest of grins as he trailed his finger down and then back up again. He did it incredibly slow, and she felt this fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

“Stuck on something?” He asked calmly, face relaxed. Her eyes widened, heat crawling up her neck as she quickly threw a glance around, sure that someone would catch them at any moment. John smiled genially, his head tilting to the side. He sat up, his face hovering inches from Rose’s, and her heart jumped. “I know Chaucer’s a bit boring Rose, but you have to show you _comprehend_ the subject matter, not just pell-mell spew everything you know and hope something sticks.” She should be annoyed with him and the patient, warm tone of his voice like she was a child in his classroom, but his touch sent an electric thrill down the length of Rose’s back as she leaned forward. They’d been toying this line for weeks— fervent touches that always stopped just short of crossing into deeper territory. Territory that she knew both of them were rather interested in exploring if they could ever find the moment. She’d never been overly precious about sex. She was no scrubber for sure, but she wasn’t a total stranger to the ways of men, and she knew John wanted her. She wanted him, too.

“It _is_ boring,” she said, grinning when John’s eyes dipped to her mouth.  
  
“ _Well_ ,” he said, dragging out the word as he often did, “we can move on to something else. Maths maybe? Or we could join Tony in an ecology lesson.” He smirked now, eyes hooded and dark, “Or we could continue our crucial studies in philematology.”  
  
“Philematology?” Rose was sure she was about to get a cheeky answer. John’s touched her knee again, hand sliding deftly up her thigh now, fingers pads slipping beneath the hem of her skirt. There was a heat to it that was steadily climbing each time they touched like this.

“Oh yes,” he smiled, leaning closer, so their noses brushed, “the _tremendously_ important science of kissing, derived from the ancient Greek word _phílēma_ , ‘to kiss.’ The Greeks were mad about earthly love, you know.”

Rose felt a fluttering in her stomach. If someone had told her six months ago that etymology would do the same thing to her as sweet nothings whispered in her ear, she’d have called them barmy. But it does. John could read her the dictionary, and she would be left a quivering mess. Their lips met in a soft, chaste kiss that quickly morphed into, well, a proper good snog. In the open, splayed out in the grass, John clutching at her waist to pull her closer, her fingers threading in his hair and his hum of pleasure. Snogging in the open where anyone could see them. Oh, her mum would go blue in the face if she knew.  
  
“John! John! Come quickly; I found a turtle!” Tony’s cries of excitement rang out through the quiet, and John broke away with a groan, forehead pressed to hers as he panted for breath.

Rose bit her lip to curb a giggle, and John rocked his head against hers. “Don’t do that,” he mumbled, nose sliding against hers. “Give a man a chance, or Tony will scramble up here and catch us, and then Jackie really will have my guts for garters.” Rose quickly pursed her lips in response, still smothering her laugh, then yelped when John nipped at her jaw before extracting himself and trotting down the bank to where Tony was, his little strawberry blonde head just visible.

Rose flopped back down on her elbows and watched her brother and John hunched in the reeds, examining Tony’s discovery.

She wouldn’t tell him just yet, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she loved him.

\+ 

_‘Tomorrow night,’_ John had whispered into her ear when they’d parted later that day, and Rose had felt her stomach flip. She’d raced upstairs that evening while everyone was in the lounge and had dug her diaphragm out from its hiding spot in the back of her wardrobe, brushing dust off the cover with a grimace.

God, it had been awhile.

Now tomorrow night was here, and she stood fidgeting while her mum eyed John and Donna Noble appraisingly. Maybe she’d been too hasty about that diaphragm, and it was a bugger to put in and all. But she’d been so sure, the way John had pressed a kiss to her pulse point when Tony wasn’t looking, his eyes pitched so dark when they’d said goodbye. 

“Donna’s granddad, Wilfred, and I do a spot of stargazing when conditions are right, and Donna often comes with us. I thought Rose,” John glanced at her with a grin, “might like to join us. We’d been chatting about star charts and the ancient process of wayfinding. The science of astronavigation, fascinating stuff!” John had quickly cottoned on that he could buffer anything with Jackie as long as there was ‘ _smart talk,’_ which usually had the desired effect of making her eyes glaze over and shuffle off to something else.  
  
“And you’ll be there, Ms. Noble?” Jackie nodded to Donna, who smiled genially.  
  
“Oh, yeah. I provide the tea and biscuits; else they’d starve out there.” 

Jackie gave another long look between Rose and John, then shrugged. “If you want to stare at a bunch of dots in the sky, be my guest. Just make sure not to wake us when you get in. And not too late, you hear!”

“Excellent!” John exclaimed, beaming. Tony had promptly begged to join, but John placated him with the promise of next time while Rose dashed to grab a heavy jumper, and then the three of them were off.

“So stargazing?” Rose asked once they were shot of the house. She knew a ruse when she heard one, and this was definitely one. She just didn’t know what Donna’s involvement was.

“Oh yes,” John said, taking her hand in his as they walked back to the Nobles’ house.

+

It turned out that star gazing was the real plan, just not with Donna or Wilfred tagging along.

 _‘Don’t get into any trouble I can’t cover for,’_ Donna had said as Rose and John had taken off in the Noble’s car, John’s telescope and a heap of blankets piled in the boot. _‘And for God’s sake, be careful with the car at night, Spaceman! I know what kind of driver you are.’_

Rose wondered if she should feel more embarrassed with the lack of pretence surrounding the whole thing—of Donna and her granddad being used as an alibi for her and John to have secluded time _alone,_ but found the anticipation churning in her stomach eclipsed everything else. She did flush to her hairline, though, when Donna winked on the doorstep before heading inside.

The sky was just growing dark as they pulled up to a nondescript field of moorland, and they trundled out with all the supplies John had packed. “That asterism there, that’s the Northern Cross,” Rose followed the path of his fingers, the worn woollen blankets scratching against her bare legs as she shifted closer. “The star at the head is Deneb, which also makes up one corner of the Summerly Triangle.” His fingers moved, mapping out the points of a large triangle. John turned to her, his fringe brushing her cheek as they lay spread out on the blankets. “Cygnus is one of the most prominent constellations to feature in human mythos around the world. Chinese, Hinduism, Polynesian cultures, Greeks and Romans— they all have names and legends for it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rose murmured, turning to meet his gaze. Their noses bumped this close; their sides pressed tight together. John gave a hum of agreement, his eyes flickering down to her mouth, then back up. “Thanks for bringing me here. I love it.”

John smiled, reaching out to brush hair from her face, his fingers skimming around her ear and down her jaw. He breathed her name and pulled her head to meet his lips. Rose’s mouth opened eagerly under his, and she breathed him in. John pushed up onto his shoulder to lean over her, deepening the kiss as his fingers toyed with the buttons on her dress front. They’d been headed for this all night, but her stomach still fluttered with nervous butterflies.  
  
“Rose,” he mumbled against her lips, sliding to press a kiss to her throat. “If you ever want me to stop, just tell me.”  
  
“I don’t,” she gasped, pulling her knee up over his thigh, to tangle her legs with his. “I want you to keep going. I want you to touch me.”

So he did, their breath clouding, mingling in the cooling night air. The long, sharp angles of him pressed into her, and she softened his edges with her body and her own fervid touches. After, they lay on their backs once more, sweat sticky and cold on their skin, as the stars swathed the sky above them. 

“After the war, I thought I’d never be happy again,” John said, voice hoarse from exertion, “I thought I didn’t deserve it.” Rose rolled into him, laying her head on his chest, his heart galloping beneath her ear. He smoothed his hand down her back. She knew he was a tactile person, and she hoped that the feel of her bare skin soothed him, gave him whatever it was he was looking for.

“You make me happy, Rose Tyler. Far happier than I’ve any right to be maybe, but so happy all the same. I lo—” he stopped, sucking in a deep breath. Rose propped herself up so she could see his face, her heart in her throat. There was a vulnerability she had never seen before, not even on that night at Foxglove.

“I love you,” Rose said, beating him to it. It didn’t change what he’d been about to say. She knew how he felt. There was no rush, he could say it when he was ready, but now he knew the sentiment was returned. She stretched up to press her lips to his properly in a sweet, lingering kiss. When they parted, John smiled, awe shining in his eyes. He breathed her name again, and she knew now what it meant when he spoke her name like that. 

Had she known then that things would get so fouled up so soon after this moment, she might have protected her heart better, but caution had never been her strong suit.

+

It was a beautiful summer day when it all fell to pieces. Rose was on her way to the café after work to meet John for a dreaded maths session, when a man caught her eye. He was sat outside the pub on the picnic tables, a half drank pint in front of him, and a fag dangling from his lips as he read the paper.

He was broad-shouldered, dark, neatly trimmed hair, and so familiar…

“Jack,” she cried in excitement, racing across the street. “Captain Jack!”

He looked up with a start, his piercing blue eyes widening as recognition hit him. “Rose Tyler, as I live and breathe, is that really you?” He was upon his feet, cigarette stubbed out on the ground, and pulled her into a tight embrace when she reached him.

For a moment, Rose was transported back to those smokey, gin-soaked nights at the Paramount in 1944, Jack’s hand warming the small of her back as they danced to Glenn Miller. He’d been so dashingly handsome in his USAAF uniform, and Rose had been so infatuated. But of course, it wasn’t meant to be, Jack went back to his squadrons airbase in Essex, and Rose had carried on with her dull daily life.

How different things were now.

“Rosie, what are you doing all the way out here?”

“My family evacuated here, and I came to join them after Henriks went up.”

Jack clutched at her arms, “Yeah, I saw what happened, I feared the worse. I’m so glad to see you’re all right.”

She smiled, “You too.” And she was, she was so glad to see Jack had made it out the other side of the war. That he wasn’t just another name of the countless people she didn’t know had lived or died. “What are _you_ doing here?” 

He grinned, “I’m looking for an old RAF pal that moved out here a few years back.” Rose’s brows furrowed at that. He couldn’t possibly mean John, could he? The war was still a topic John wouldn’t speak about to any detail, but she knew Jack had been an American volunteer pilot with the RAF before the United States joined the war. Had Jack been through some of the same horrors that still tormented John?

“Maybe I know him,” Rose said, worrying her lip. “It’s a small community, after all.”

“Maybe you do. I’ve been trying to track him down all day, with no luck. He’s always been like that.”

Definitely, John then. John hated reminders of the war, but if he and Jack were mates, surely he’d be happy to see him. Rose thought of the friends she’d left in London, and how pleased she’d be to have them here. “Actually, I was just on my way to meet someone, someone that I think we might have in common if you want to come along.”

Jack’s grin broadened, dimples on display. “I’d love to.”

+

The minute John clapped eyes on Jack, Rose knew she’d made a grave mistake. She watched the cheer drain from John’s eyes, his face becoming stiff and unreadable. A blank mask. It was frightening to watch, really, how he could shut down so quickly. 

“Hullo,” Rose said, placing a small kiss to his cheek, which he didn't respond to, as she slid into the chair beside him. “Turns out we have a mutual friend. Who’d have thought, eh?” Rose turned to Jack, noticing for the first time the hard edge to his smile.

“Hello, Doctor.”

John’s nostrils flared, jaw clenching. “Jack,” he replied frostily.

Rose looked apprehensively between the two of them. “I was on my way to meet you when I ran into Jack, and he mentioned he was looking for an RAF mate, and I thought that had to be you, so I invited him along. I hope you don’t mind if we postpone maths, I just thought you’d be happy to see an old friend.” Rose reached for John’s hand under the table, squeezing, noticing the strained quirk of his lips.

“If it hadn’t been for Rose, I don’t know when I would have found you. You’re a hard man to track down. I’d already stopped by your house, but Wilf didn’t know when you’d be back.”

John’s jaw clenched again, exposing a lone dimple. “You went to my house? What did you say?” 

“The truth— that I was an old RAF pal, and I was in town.” Jack turned to Rose, “Is he always this tetchy?” Rose felt a knot forming in her stomach. It was like a secret second conversation was happening around her, and she was too daft to catch on. 

“How do you two know each other?” John now asked mildly, eyes narrowed on Jack.

Jack grinned at Rose, taking a seat across the table from John. “Rosie and I—” John’s eyes flicked to Rose fleetingly before turning back to Jack, “use to cut quite the rug at all the London dance halls while I was at Debden. Knockin’ it out night after night. One of the best dance partner I ever had. You should see her swing.” Jack winked, and despite herself, Rose felt the beginnings of a blush. 

“I’m sure,” John replied, voice cold and indifferent. Rose felt an angry flush crawling up her neck. She couldn’t believe what an arsehole he was being. “What do you want, Jack?”

Jack’s smile dropped. “As I said, you’re a hard man to get hold of. Still crummy at correspondence, I see, Doctor.”

John’s eyes flashed at this, his brows rising. He then turned to look at her, the first real acknowledgment since she’d stepped into the cafe. “Why don’t you go home, Rose,” he said, squeezing their twined hands.“You get a reprieve for the night. We’ll reschedule maths for tomorrow. It’ll just be old war talk that you don’t get, not much fun for you.”

Rose let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. She was being pushed off, and she wasn’t falling for it. “I’m not expected home till later. Besides, I wanna hear all about yours and Jack’s stories. Knowing the two of you, there’s bound to be some good ones.”

Jack grinned, but John’s face remained unreadable as he extracted his hand from hers. “You should leave, Rose.”

She gaped at him, stunned and hurt. “I’m not going anywhere. What’s going on, John?”

“Rose,” he said gravely now, “please go.”

Rose turned to Jack, who smiled sympathetically. “It’s okay, honey, we’ll catch up later, I promise.” She turned back to John, who was staring resolutely ahead. Tears burned in her eyes, hot and stinging, but she refused to cry.  
  
“I can’t believe you,” she whispered harshly, voicing waiving treacherously. “Don’t bother rescheduling.” John glanced at her at that, face stricken for a moment, mouth opening like he was going to say something before the mask fell back into place and his mouth closed with a click. 

Without another word, Rose stood, her feet numbly carrying her out of the café. She waited till the shop was out of sight before she finally let her tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] There are so many varying stories about the Doctor's life on Gallifrey, including his family and childhood. I've piecemealed some of the most popular or common beliefs here. 
> 
> [2] I've imagined Gallifrey as geographically similar to Iceland and tried to match the flora to Arctic conditions, however, there's no way Poplar trees would thrive in the Arctic. Suspend disbelief for the silver leaves everyone! 
> 
> [3] Jack's war history follows canon here. Except, unlike canon, this Jack lived to see the US join the war, and like all American volunteer RAF pilots, was reassigned to the USAAF. Debden was a real American airbase in Essex.


	8. Chapter Eight

Whisky had never blessedly burned in all his life, and he drank it down in great big gulps.

It was spectacular, really, how skilled John was in self-sabotage. He had longed to chase after Rose when she’d left the café, explain everything and beg on bended knees for her forgiveness. All she’d asked for was honesty, and he’d lied to her face as he promised just that. And then he’d slept with her, let her profess her love to him.

Christ, what was wrong with him? 

“I assume you got the letters then,” Jack said, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “Did you even read them?”

“What, you’re not here to catch up?” John asked, voice dripping with disdain. “Old war chums and all that.” John scowled, “Does it matter? I would have thought my lack of response was answer enough.”

Jack smirked, “You and I both know it doesn’t work that way, Doctor.”

“Stop,” John snarled “stop calling me that. I don’t work for bloody UNIT anymore, so now that you’ve come and poured petrol all over my life, you can tell them to bally well bugger off. Officially. I’m done. Whatever it is, I want no part of it.”

Like many, John had been recruited by UNIT fresh out of Cambridge, seduced by the thrill of globe-trotting adventure and the promise of making the world a better place. That instead of rotting away in a University lab or lecture hall, his work could be used for the greater good. However, John had grown to realize that what UNIT saw as the greater good didn’t always match with John’s conscious. And then war broke out, and the world was thrown into chaos, and John had felt duty-bound to do his bit. It was then that he’d seen what UNIT really was, just another power-driven government agency flexing for control, no matter the cost. He didn’t feel duty-bound anymore.

Jack let out a humourless bark of laughter. “Christ, I forgot what a sanctimonious prick you can be. Don’t blame me for _you_ treating Rose like a world-class jackass. And I don’t give a flying fuck what your personal beef with UNIT is. I’m only here because of Saxon.”  
  
John’s palms went clammy, his heart thundering in his ears. That was a name he’d hoped to never hear again for the rest of his days. “UNIT already settled the tribunal. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

Jack took a swig of his drink, jaws grinding as he leaned in to ensure he wasn’t overheard by the other patrons in the pub. “He’s alive.”

“That’s not possible,” John balked, eyes narrowing. “I saw his plane shot out the sky, I watched him burn up. Saxon is dead.” The words felt heavy on his tongue. He could still see the Valiant engulfed in a ball of flame, tail spinning into the black ocean below. There had been no ejection seat deployment, John was sure of it.  
  
“He’s not,” Jack snarled. “I wasted away in a POW camp for a year because of that double-crossing son of a bitch, and he doesn’t even have the fucking decency to stay dead.”  
  
John blanched at that. He’d not known for weeks what had happened in the aftermath of the Gallifrey mission, laid up in hospital, recovering from his own plane crash. When he heard what had happened to Jack, it had been just another drop in the vast ocean of his guilt. He should have seen sooner that Harry would betray them, but by the time he had realized that Harry was a double agent, it had been too late, and Gallifrey had paid the ultimate price.

“Two years ago, Torchwood intercepted schematics for a device the Reds had R&D on. It turned out to be a prototype of the Keller Machine.” In the investigation UNIT led into the depth of Harry’s treachery, they’d uncovered that under the alias of Dr. Emil Keller, Harry had theorized a chemical weapon for the Soviets, which would induce terrifying hallucinations. It had shaken John to his core that Harry would weaponize the mind in such a way. “Then, Torchwood began picking up chatter in December about a Soviet spy in London, codename Yana, and the Keller process being made into a nerve agent. It was Saxon working under a new codename. He’s been taking meeting out of the fucking Scoundrels Club for months.” John felt bile rising in his throat. No one could have survived that crash. Harry was dead. _He had to be._ “C’mon John, even you can’t be so dense as to deny that’s no mere coincidence.”

He couldn’t. The Saxons had been members of the Scoundrels Club for years, but then so were others; it was a prominent covert place for government under dealings and backhand business transactions. 

“You know him better than anyone. We need your help to bring him in.” 

There was a time when John had deluded himself into thinking that might have been true. But any remnants of the Koschei he’d known and cared for were long gone. Loyalty meant nothing to Harry if it didn’t serve his own purposes, a true sign of his ambition and arrogance. John came to understand that he and his closet boyhood friend were not the same as they once were.

“I can’t.” John said, staring into the bottom of his glass. Jack stared at him in disbelief and anger. He’d seen that look a lot this evening, it seemed.

“You can’t be serious? After everything that traitor did, not just to us, but to your whole goddamn country. I don’t care what torrid, prep school love affair you two once had,” John cringed at this, eyes sweeping around the pub quickly. Jack knew better than anyone not to throw about talk like that publicly. What he and Harry had once been was confusing and twisted. Even now, all these years later, John still couldn’t make out what their relationship had been at the Academy. 

Had there ever really been love? Perverse attraction, yes. Affection, certainly at one point, at least on his end. But it had all been twisted up in competitive one-upmanship, tomfoolery, and plotting their bright and brilliant futures. The older they got, the more they realized their views opposed one another, and that comradery they’d once shared had soured to the point of hostility. 

“How can you not want him brought to justice?”

“I do,” John hissed, “I want him to rot for what he’s done. I just can’t be a part of it.” The truth was he was a coward. Harry might have sold them all down the river, but ultimately John had made the call. “I can’t. Everything that happened with Saxon and Gallifrey— I won’t go back to that. My life is here now.”  
  
“Here?” Jack snorted dismissively, “Hiding away as some eccentric school teacher in some Podunk town? Does Rose know who you really are, or are you hoping a bit of her _goodness_ will rub off on you?”  
  
“Stop,” John growled, cheeks heating with rage. “Don’t you dare bring Rose into this.”  
  
Jack glowered at him. “You’re so full of shit, Doc. Fine, don’t help us, stay here and enjoy civilian life while the rest of us do the hard work.”

\+ 

John didn’t go home that night, whisky and fear churning in his stomach. Instead, he walked till his feet ached, and he could go no further. Jack had said he’d be around tomorrow— or today he supposed— if John’ came to his senses’ and changed his mind. But John knew he wouldn’t. Nothing could bring him back to that world, not even capturing Harold Saxon. The lingering affection John had once felt wasn’t for the man Harold Saxon, but for the boy Koschei, who he’d once shared everything with. He hated that part of him still felt a sense of responsibility for Harry, but the war had changed John, and as much as he would like to see Harry suffer for what he’d done, he just couldn’t go back to that life. He’d hated the man he had become working for UNIT, and he loathed the man the war had forced him to become.

Above all else, he had to talk to Rose before Jack did and potentially destroyed what last chance John might have to put things right. The idea of things ending with Rose was unbearably painful, especially knowing he had no one to blame but himself. He would do anything to fix things— nothing was worse than losing Rose’s love.

The sun was rising when he finally stepped through the front door. Donna came hurtling out of the kitchen in her housecoat, looking properly hacked off, fire burning in her eyes. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” She hissed, blocking the stairway. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Gramps mentioned that you had an RAF friend that stopped by, but that’s bollocks because I know I’m your only friend. What’s going on? Where have you been all night?”

John pushed passed her to collapse onto the steps, his hand rubbing roughly over his face. “Out walking. I had to clear my head.”

Donna frowned at this, and he sighed. “I’m being haunted by ghosts, it seems. Every time I think I can begin to put the past behind me, the universe reminds me that it isn’t an option.” Donna stood, arms folded tight across her chest, unimpressed. “Don’t worry, Donna, you’re still my only friend. Someone who was presumed dead has resurfaced, and UNIT wants my assistance on the case. That so-called RAF friend, he was their messenger.”  
  


“Oh,” Donna said, fiery ire somewhat cooled. “Is that what all those letters were about?”

John nodded, scratching at his neck. “He was the pilot who passed the intel about Gallifrey. He was my friend, my oldest friend, and he betrayed us all. His actions cost us both our home and the lives of so many people. I had to bomb out my entire country to keep it from falling into Nazi hands. No one should have to do that.”

“Oh, John, I’m sorry,” Donna sighed, squeezing in beside him to put a comforting arm around his shoulder. They sat there quietly for a moment before Donna’s curiosity got the better of her. “Are you going to help them?”

“No,” he said emphatically. “Nothing good can come from it. If anything, I’d be detrimental to them. Harry and I bring out the worse in each other.” And they did from the moment they met all those years ago at the Academy, feeding into each other’s worse instincts and ideas like an ouroboros devouring itself. “I don’t want to be that man anymore.”

“You’re a lot of things, Spaceman, but a bad man you are not.” John felt a painful lump quiver in his throat at that. He’d heard that sentiment not that long ago, Rose’s tongue tipped smile flittering through his mind. What if he never saw that again? Oh, God, what would he do? 

“I think I may have buggered things up with Rose for good.” He felt like he was choking on his grief, the words tearing hoarsely from his mouth.

Donna’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I was meeting Rose at Terry’s Café, and she walked in with Jack in tow— apparently they were previously acquainted and ran into one another on the street.” He didn’t even want to think about that, Rose’s pretty blush and Jack bloody winking at her— ‘ _you should see her swing.’_ “Anyway, I panicked when I saw Jack, and I, uh, didn’t handle it well.”  
  
Donna rolled her eyes in exasperation, “Oh, you colossal dumbo. Well, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. She obviously loves you. Just explain, she’ll understand.”

“Yeah,” John mumbled, but he wasn’t convinced.

+

John was waiting for Rose when she got off work that evening, pacing outside the shop, his hands shoved in his pockets. He had tried not to spy as he waited, but he couldn’t help glancing in through the front window periodically, watching her smile pleasantly with customers. It wasn’t her real smile, though. He knew that one, had basked in the full effect of its warmth like a cat in a sunbeam.

When she saw him, her body tensed, a cross look on her face, and he felt his stomach flip. She looked especially pretty tonight, her lightweight summery dress with the skirt that swished around her knees, the tantalizing expanse of her collarbone, hair curled nicely.

“Ro—” he reached for her, and she stepped back.  
  
“Don’t.” She snapped, shouldering her handbag. “I don’t want to hear it right now, John.”

“I’m so sorry, Rose. The way I treated you yesterday is inexcusable. Please, if we could talk—”  
  
Rose lifted her chin in challenge, “What was going on last night then?” 

He fell silent, mouth pursed in a desperate hard line. The one question he couldn’t answer without lying.

“Right,” Rose’s bottom lip trembled, her eyes filled with hurt. “That’s what I thought.” Rose shook her head, taking a step further away. “I did this once already, allowed myself to become blinded by love and a man I didn’t really know.” John felt his heart clench tightly at this. “Turned out he had a fiancé in Hackney and a long list of girls who he’d meet at the club he played at. I’d placed my future on a man who’d deceived me from the moment we met— lies and omissions, and roundabout tales. Was one of the reasons I moved to Bucknall, was so humiliated and embarrassed that I’d let Jimmy pull the wool over my eyes for as long as he did.” She’d never told him that, had only mentioned her’ arsehole ex-boyfriend’ in passing. “I won’t be had like that again.”  
  
“I would _never—”_

“No, this time it’s worse because I trusted you so much more. You promised me, John, no more secrets, and I was stupid enough to believe you. But you’ll never truly let me in, will you? There will always be things I don’t know about you.”

It felt a strange, terrible déjà vu. Like they were running in circles— only to end up back where they started. Why did Rose have to know every little minute detail about him? What good would it bring? Was he not entitled to keep a least a small part of himself back? Why did they have to dredge up everything?

“There are things I’ve done and been apart of that I just can’t tell you, even if I wanted to. Things I’m ashamed of, things that are too painful to talk about. Things I’m legally bound by the Official Secrets Acts not to discuss— I lived a very different life before the war, one that I not entirely proud of. But the things that matter—” He reached for her again, trapping her hands between his and squeezing tightly. “You know. You know me, Rose. I _promise_ you know me.”

“But I told you, your past won’t change how I feel about you.”

“You don’t know that.” He exclaimed, heart beating wildly in his ears.

The anger fled Rose’s face, leaving a deep sadness and disappointment in its wake. He almost wished for the anger back. He could handle anger more than disappointment.

“But you don’t know that either. You’ve not even given me a chance. You’ve already written me off.”

He stared at her, mouth open like she’d frozen him to the spot. Bloody hell, she was right. He’d spent their whole relationship terrified that he’d lose her if she knew the truth. He’d been so blinded by his own fear and self-loathing that he’d just assumed the worst. But that wasn’t fair to Rose, was it? She’d never judged him before, not for a moment, even after hearing about his mental breakdown and the baggage he carried. She’d proven time and time again what a caring and compassionate person she was— that her love wasn’t conditional or fragile.

Didn’t he owe her the benefit of the doubt?

She pulled her hands from his grasp, backing further way down the street from him. “I’m sorry. I gotta go.”

He could do nothing but watch her leave, feet rooted to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] UNIT and Torchwood operate similarly to how MI5/MI6 or the NSA/CIA does. UNIT does international, while Torchwood sticks to national concerns. 
> 
> [2] Harold Saxon's story plays on the "Cambridge Five"- a group of Soviet spies that were all recruited out of Oxbridge before and during WWII. 
> 
> [3] Dr. Keller and his machine come from a Third Doctor episode "The Mind of Evil". 
> 
> [4] The Scoundrels Club is where the Master always recuperates after regeneration. 
> 
> [5] The Offical Secrets Act was commonly used by anyone working on classified information during the war such as Bletchly Park others working in Intelligence. MI5/MI6 still uses it.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter is dialogue heavy.

Rose stood on the upstairs landing. From the bottom of the steps, Donna gave her an encouraging little smile and a small flick of her hand, as if miming for Rose to move.

She knocked four times.

“Go away, Donna,” the voice on the other end of the door said sharply. She could hear a record playing softly in the background.  
  
“It’s, uh, it’s not Donna,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Donna still wasn’t watching. She tested the doorknob, turning to indicate it wasn’t locked, and opened the door.

John jumped from his seat, upending a pile of loose papers with his elbow, onto the already cluttered desk.

“Rose,” his brows shot up in surprise, eyes wide and flustered. “Wh— um, what are you doing here?” 

It had been three days since she’d seen him; three days since the incident outside the haberdashery.

“Can I come in?”

It was a moderately sized room with a large desk under the window, and a small double bed shoved to the corner. At the bottom of the bed, lay a tall, battered blue steamer trunk. In front of the fireplace sat a worn armchair with a little light table beside it. Rose noticed his folded telescope propped against the side of the wardrobe. Rose picked her way carefully around the room, making note to avoid the towering stacks of books on the floor and coming to stand by his bookcase as she scanned the shelves.

“You seem to have a thing for powerful women,” she said, noting several historical biographies of leading female figures: Cleopatra, The two British Queens: Elizabeth and Victoria, Mary Queen of Scots, Boudica, Emmaline Pankhurst, Joan of Arc, Amelia Earhart and, of course, John’s beloved Madame de Pompadour, who he’d rhapsodized about ad nauseam during her review of pre-revolutionary France. Honestly, if she never heard about the _Uncrowned Queen of France_ again, it would be too bloody soon.  
  
“Oh,” he mumbled, scratching at his head, “I, uh, I never really thought about it like that.” There were more titles— books on astrophysics and cosmology, quantum mechanics, and scientific philosophy, shelves dedicated to the far reaches of the globe, even books in several languages including Arabic, Russian, French, Latin, Greek and German, and something Scandinavian she didn’t even recognize for sure— Danish maybe? Icelandic?

“You didn’t come to borrow a book, did you?” She could hear the hesitation in his voice.  
  
“No,” she said, turning back around to face him. “I thought we could go somewhere and talk.” Rose stretched out her hand, wiggling her fingers in invitation and immediately John took it, relief evident in his eyes as his palm curled around hers.

+

They walked down the creek, John, with a vice grip on her hand as if he feared she would pull away at any moment. The thought reassured her that he still wanted her hand, but it also made her dreadfully sad that she was the cause of his anxiety. The expanding hilly range of the Peak District opened up before them, and they found a clear space by the bank to sit. She thought of stolen moments in spots so similar to this, and when she looked over at John, she could tell he had the same thought from the tender, wistful look he gave her.

John’s expression then grew anxious again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Before you say anything- if this is my last chance to say it, Rose Tyler—”

She shook her head, reaching for his hand again. “I don’t want that, John. For you to tell me that because you’re worried you’re going to lose me, or because you think it’s what I wanna hear. Let’s save it for a moment when it feels right— when you really mean it.”  
  
“I do mean it, though,” he said earnestly, eyes shining with emotion. “Now, or tomorrow, or fifty years down the road.”  
  
“I know,” she smiled, rubbing comforting circles into his hand. “But that’s not what I want to talk about. I think I’ve been a bit hard on you, and I’m sorry about that. I guess I’m just—” she shrugged, “I guess I’ve got some lingering trust issues I need to work on. Of course, you’re entitled to keep certain things to yourself. It isn’t fair that I demand you tell me every little dark secret of your life. I know there are things in my life I’d rather not talk about, so I shouldn’t expect that from you.”  
  
John stared at her in surprise. “You’re apologizing to me? Rose, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who needs to apologize— _again_ — profusely. You were so right,I wasn’t giving you a chance to understand.” He reached up, hand hesitating for a moment before cupping her cheek gently. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I don’t care if I’m breaking Parliamentary Acts, nothing is worth losing _this_.”

She shook her head again. “You’re not gonna lose me. And you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to force you into anythin’. What kind of person would I be if I did that?” Rose had thought long and hard about that these past few days— what kind of person was she to pressure the man she loved into reliving painful memories he was desperate to escape.

“I want to tell you,” John countered quickly, then paused, scrunching his features. “Well, no, that’s not strictly true, I suppose. I don’t _want_ to talk about any of this, but I think I _need_ to. I’ve kept it all inside for so long, thinking that I could just ignore or pretend everything was fine, but maybe you were right all along, Rose. Maybe I just need someone to share it with?” 

Rose took his hand, sandwiching it between both of hers and placing them in her lap. She kept silent, worried that even a word from her might spook him, like a frightened deer at the sound of a snapping twig.

“You asked about Jack.” Rose nodded, biting at her lip. That day outside the shop, she’d been on her way to meet Jack for a drink, and he had been just as resolutely tight-lipped about the whole thing as John had been. “Well, I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

John took a deep breath as if preparing himself for something.

“I told you that Gallifrey was bombed out in 1944. What I didn’t tell you was that I was responsible for the Allied attack orders.”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry.” She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Despite the glassy look in his eyes, he smiled lovingly at her. Rose suddenly felt like her heart was breaking for John, and the pain in his voice.  
  
“Before the War, I worked for an international intelligence agency called UNIT. I was recruited right out of Cambridge.” Rose sat there, her pulse thundering in her ears. John was some kind of spy or something. God, suddenly it made sense— his reluctance talk about things, how there always seemed to be something missing to his stories. “When war broke out, I was seconded to the RAF, as I was already a trained pilot. That’s where I met Jack; he also works in Intelligence for a Commonwealth organization called Torchwood. During the war, one of the pilots I flew with was a man I grew up with in Gallifrey, named Harold Saxon. We came up in the Academy together and were—” he shifted uncomfortably, “c _lose_ at one point. Best mates, really. Fancied ourselves renegades— anti-establishment and that tosh.” John shook his head bashfully, scratching at his head. “Right twats, we were.” He was smirking now, an almost wistful expression on his face. “Anyway, eventually, Harry and I grew apart— I suppose our _interests_ started to diverge.We were fiercely competitive, which often led to resentment and anger, especially on Harry’s end. Harry became ruthless, remorseless, egotistical— nose deep in issues of _Pravda._ When we graduated, we parted ways on bad terms, and I lost tabs on him until he showed up at our base.”

Rose went to speak, but John shook his head, his thumb rubbing circles in her hand as if it soothed him more than her. “I promise I’m getting somewhere with this story. Up until 1944, Gallifrey had avoided any involvement in the War, insular and elitist until the very end— content to watch the world burn around them as long as they survived untouched.” John’s expression slid into something dark and angry. “But, because of its strategic location, Gallifrey became a place of interest to the Allies and the Nazis who were both interested in using the Island as a major submarine hub. However, Gallifrey’s President, Rassilon, wasn’t interested in co-operating with either side. Harry and I were asked to help get Rassilon on the Allies side, but Harry deceived and betrayed us. He was really a Soviet agent and was attempting to secure Gallifrey under Russian control. Their plans were discovered by the Nazis, who ordered the Luftwaffe to bomb Gallifrey into submission before the Soviets could swoop in. The Allied forces didn’t hear about it until it was too late to save Gallifrey, and by then, the only thing we could do was to try and stop the Germans at any cost.” John’s hand was trembling, still trapped between hers. His whole body seemed to be vibrating in repressed anguish. “If they had taken control of Gallifrey, it would have been disastrous. They would have control over two major Atlantic passages, and Britain would be completely cut off— we’d have lost the war. So I made the call and sacrificed my home for the greater good. I crashed over the ocean during the fighting, and I woke up four days later in hospital. Jack crashed too, but he was captured and spent a year in a Polish POW camp. He calls in the ‘Year that Wasn’t.’”

“And your friend?”

John faced flickered with some unreadable expression, his eyes hard and dark. “He tried to flee, but his plane was shot down. Not before he took Jack down with him, though. He was presumed dead, but somehow he survived. That’s what Jack’s visit was about, to tell me about Harry.”

Rose’s eyes were stinging, her tears threatening to spill over. No-one should have to go through what John had. She squeezed his hand, and something in him seemed to break. With a shudder, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, wetting her skin as the tears finally fell. “What happened is horrible, but it wasn’t your fault John. It was a war, and you did what you had to do.”

“How can you say that?” He asked brokenly, his voice muffled against her skin. “So many Gallifreyans died that day, and yet somehow he didn’t, like— like a bloody cockroach, he climbed out of the rubble and scurried away, like always. _I knew him._ I knew what he was capable of, and I was still just as blind as the rest. I should have stopped him, if I’d cottoned on sooner, I could hav—”

“You can’t think like that,” Rose said, running her fingers through his hair with her free hand. “The _woulda, coulda, shoulda’s—_ you’ll drive yourself mad if you do.”  
  
“I already did, remember?” He said sardonically, nuzzling at her. She tugged at his hair in response. There was nothing funny about what John had been through. Especially the time he spent in a convalescence home. Just the thought of it, of her fantastic, brilliant, sweet John, so broken inside that he didn’t even want to live, tore at her. 

“What’s going to happen now?” She asked in a small voice, fingers continuing to comb through the soft stands of his hair. John lifted his head to look at her, his brows furrowed in confusion. “With Saxon,” she clarified. “What he did is treason or something like that, right? Doesn’t he have to face punishment?”  
  
“Yes, he does.” John said, “But that’s for the British and Gallifreyan governments to sort out. Jack wants me to help bring him in,” he took another shuddering breath, rubbing his hand roughly over his face. “But I can’t get involved. It took everything to try to put what happened behind me. I can’t go back.” He gazed back at her, and her breath caught in her throat at the look in his eyes. “I want to go forward— with you, Rose. That’s all I want.”

“You have me,” she said, pulling him into a tight embrace. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, his ear, his jaw, his lips, and he clung to her, returning her kiss with zeal. “I promise, John,” she said when their mouths parted, “You’re stuck with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] John's shelf of famous ladies comes from several historical women the Doctor has named dropped/had encounters with, both in Classic and NuWho. Most of these names come from the Tenth Doctor though. 
> 
> [1] Gallifrey's fate is partly inspired by the Faroe Islands which the British peacefully occupied during the war and the British Channel Islands of Jersey and Guernsey which were taken by the Germans at the beginning of the war and weren't liberated until 1945. 
> 
> [2] Pravda is a Russian newspaper that at one point was the the official newspaper of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Stalin and Nikolai Bukharin were both former Editor-in-chiefs. It was incredibly influencial in spreading Bolshevik though and theory throughout the Empire/Soviet Union, especially during the Revolution and in its early post-revolution days.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge cheers to everyone who followed along with this story!

_Recognition, respite, recall, reassurance, rehabilitation, return._

While in the convalescence home, this was all John seemed to hear from the various psychiatrists and nurses that fluttered through to treat him, the 7 R’s for mental trauma as implemented by the British Army.

_Recognition, respite, recall, reassurance, rehabilitation, return._

John just couldn’t seem to get over the rehab part, as if the antiquated combination of fresh British air, mindless artistic endeavours like stencilling or watercolours, and a good relaxing book was somehow meant to cure him of the terrors and guilt that filled his mind and plagued his nights. _Suicidal_ they had said. Unfit to continue service until his reckless, self-destructive behaviour was adequately rectified. Visits from the Brigadier and his less than constructive pep talks ‘ _time to pull up your socks man, UNIT needs you back.’_

_Recognition, respite, recall, reassurance, rehabilitation, return._

What was there to return to? More pointless fighting and death? The smouldering remains of Gallifrey? Missions for UNIT? There was nothing.

Then he’d received Lady Sarah Jane’s offer, and a new option had opened up before him. He didn’t have to _return. He_ could just _leave—_ leave it all behind and be someone new, someone who wasn’t haunted and lonely.Maybe it was the coward’s way out, to cut and run, rather than address his problems head-on, but he’d never claimed to be anything else.

John Smith could be a different man in Bucknall. A man who smiled, who laughed, who enjoyed his new, quiet life and the roots he had begun to make, but it didn’t change anything— not really. It didn’t stop the nightmares and the overwhelming guilt; it didn’t rectify the mistakes he’d made or the regrets he had.

But then he met Rose and had fallen in love, a feeling he’d not known in so long, maybe never really if he was honest, and he realized what a bloody fool he’d been. _Return,_ that word he’d been running from, was just that— a word. It didn’t have to mean going back to a life he no longer wanted or lingering on past hurts. _Return_ was about reclaiming the person he once was— the man who had dreams and hopes, the man who believed in things.

Because he did believe in things again, he believed in Rose and the life they could build together. He could even begin to believe he was worthy of that life because he must be if Rose, Donna, Wilf, and Lady Sarah and even Jackie Tyler thought he was.

_Recognition, respite, recall, reassurance, rehabilitation, return._

He had survived, and now _finally,_ he wanted to live. 

+

With the air once and for all cleared between himself and Rose, John settled into a happiness he thought maybe he had never known before. Donna frequently referred to him now as a moon-eyed sod, but he noted it was always with a tone of affection. 

In August, John, Rose and Tony travelled to London to attend the Olympics closing ceremony. John had acquired the tickets weeks ago, as a treat for how hard Rose had been studying, and deciding his vast London connections should be used for something good for once. Of course, it would have been exceptionally nice to sweep Rose off in an exciting, romantic adventure, but poor Tony would have never forgiven them for leaving him behind, and Tony’s presence kept the whole trip _respectable._ As if John and Rose weren’t intimately _acquainted_ with one another already, afternoons spent making love in secluded bits of the countryside, Rose’s bare shoulders turning tawny in the summer sunlight.

Plus, he couldn’t deny the delight he felt, observing Tony practically vibrate with excitement in his seat at Wembley as the flag bearers began marching into the stadium. That child-like glee was coming off Tony in waves, and it was hard not to feel it himself, sharing a pleased grin with Rose over the wiggling boy’s head.

Her beaming smile only added to the feeling.

“This was the best!” Tony exclaimed after as they and the rest of London it seemed streamed out the stadium, sandwiched between John and Rose, his arms linked through each of theirs. Tony kept up his animated chatter as they headed down the road, a play-by-play of his favourite moments like a sports highlight broadcast, and John was awash in a feeling of contentment. 

Rose arranged for them to stay the night with Martha and Mickey, who, upon their arrival, surprised them all once more with news of a forthcoming addition to the Smith-Jones household.

“A baby! Oh, Mickey, how wonderful!” Rose cooed, dewy-eyed with happiness for her friend. John knew few details of Mickey's early life, just enough to know how important a family of his own must be to him now. It was a feeling John could empathize with, the way he’d found a family of sorts in Bucknall after the loss of his Gallifreyan one. It was more than that though now, as he watched Rose fawn over Martha and the fledgling swell of her stomach; it was the warmth that seemed to radiate through him when they were with Tony— how good it felt, how right even, that they could have this one day with their own children. He’d always liked children, he couldn’t do what he did every day if he didn’t, but he’d never once thought of being a father himself.

But with Rose…

He could see his whole future with Rose. It would be one filled with love, laughter, and the kind of adventure he had never had.

He wanted that, catching Rose’s eye with a soft smile.

“What were you grinning like a loon about earlier?” Rose asked later, chin coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Oh, nothing,” John replied airily, bookmarking his page. “I suppose I just had a good day.”

Rose smiled, that beautiful tongue touched one he adored, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Me too.”

+

_‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’_ as the old adage went, and to John, that saying had never been so true.

It seemed in the blink of an eye the summer had come to an end. Long sunny days growing shorter by the hour as September arrived, and once again, John prepped for the beginning of term. He and Rose continued to review for her upcoming exams, evenings spent hauled up in his room (with the door opened of course, at Sylvia’s insistence, which infantilized and annoyed John to no end). John had gotten his hands on a copy of last year's exams and had Rose writing practice ones every week— an exercise he knew Rose found tedious but grudgingly acknowledged was helpful.

John was one-hundred percent certain Rose would do well on all her exams. _Well_ , he was ninety-eight percent certain Rose would do well. Maths was still touch and go. In honesty, it was frustrating to watch at times— again and again, Rose would be so close to getting it, having done all the work right only to stumble at the last hurdle and not get the correct answer.

“This is bloody impossible,” Rose moaned, burying her head in her arms. “My brain just wasn’t meant to do this.”   
  
“Nonsense,” John said, rubbing comforting circles on her back. “You’re so close to getting it, my love. I can feel it. Quadratics ar—” Rose suddenly jerked her head up, a wide-eyed look to her.   
  
“What was that?” She asked, eyes darting around his face.   
  
“What was what?” He questioned back, confused.

“What you just said.” A small smile now tugged at her lips.

“I said you’re so close to getting this. I know—”   
  
“No,” Rose said quickly, interrupting him again. “You called me something.”

John paused, brows furrowed over the frame of his glasses. He hadn’t said anything unusual, he thought, just… _oh._ “I— I called you _‘my love,’_ ” he said softly, reverently, reaching to brush away a few errant curls from her cheek. “Which you are.”

This, of course, wasn’t new information. Rose more than knew that he loved her, but it was quickly dawning on him that this was the first time he had uttered that particular word it in any tangible way. Rose had wanted him to wait for a moment that felt right, but every moment he was with her felt right. And it was a feeling that grew deeper and deeper with every day.

“I love you, Rose.” He ran the pad of his fingers over the apple of her cheek, felt the smooth, warm skin underneath, the stretch of it as she smiled into his palm.

“If you’re trying to distract me from whinging about maths,” she murmured as he angled his head down, their lips brushing. “It’s working.”

A burst of laughter escaped him before Rose swallowed it with a kiss. 

\+ 

Eventually, the day finally came for Rose to sit her exams.

That morning Rose took the train to Derby, where the Derbyshire County School Certificate examination was scheduled. John, of course, accompanied her. Wild horses couldn’t have kept him from being there for her, but luckily it was a Saturday, so he had no other obligations. 

“Those girls keep looking at you,” Rose whispered, subtly nodding to a small group of schoolgirls gathered on the platform near them who kept glancing over their shoulders in interest. 

“Oh,” John looked up from his newspaper, peering at the group. “Those are students of mine from Deffry Vale. I imagine they’re headed to take their exams, too.”

Rose frowned, shifting uncomfortably, “Don’t remind me. I’m going to be such an old crow compared to the others.”

John folded his paper, gathering Rose into his arms, “You, Miss Tyler, are decidedly no old crow. Don’t waste a single thought on that. Heaps of people continue their education as adults. There is absolutely no shame in it.”   
  
“Yeah?” Rose mumbled, burying her face in the lapels of his overcoat.

“Yes,” he replied staunchly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and ignoring his resulting blush when the schoolgirls broke out in girlish tittering at the sight. When they arrived at the community hall being used for the examination, Rose had a vice-like grip on his hand, her nerves beginning to get the best of her. John hated to see her so nervous, she’d worked so hard, and he couldn’t be prouder of her. It was unusual to see Rose this way. She was always such a determined person, someone who seemed to charge into things head first, but then he remembered how nervous she’d initially been to ask for his help in the first place all those months ago.

Old insecurities were hard to shake, though. That was something he could understand.

“All right,” she said, squaring her shoulders when an SSEC examiner stepped out the usher all the students in. “Wish me luck, yeah?”

John pulled her into one last tight embrace, “You are brilliant, Rose Tyler. The most brilliant person I know, and that means something coming from me, because I’m quite brilliant myself, so I should know.”

Rose chuckled, pushing playfully at his chest, “Right then, you arrogant sod, I best get in there.”

John kisses her gently, pressing as much love and support and every other positive emotion he could think of into it.

“See ya in the few hours,” she said when they parted a moment later. He watched her vanish through the doorway before letting out a deep breath.

It felt like he’d waited his whole life for Rose. He could wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] During WWII, the British Army treated Operational Stress Reaction according to the 7 R's. OSR was seen as a precursor to the later development of post-traumatic stress disorder, which wasn't defined until 1952 and was historically linked to shell shock. 
> 
> [2] The success of the London Olympics was a huge deal as it showed how revitalized and unbroken Britain was after the war, and highlighted how quickly London was able to rebuild and modernize after the Blitz. This was a huge power move for the UK and part of why Britain is seen as so victorious in the Post-War era. 
> 
> [3] Deffry Vale is the fictional school in "School Reunion."


End file.
